Back In The Saddle Again

Tomorrow and the next day I am going to be the substitute teacher in Rebecca's first grade classroom. She is already in New Hampshire preparing for the wedding and I don't leave until Wednesday night so I agreed to teach a few days for her and I am surprised by how much I am looking forward to it. Packing my school bag tonight and picking out my outfit for tomorrow felt comfortable and familiar, two nice ways to feel before leaving in a matter of days on an eight-month round-the-world trip.

Teaching for me feels a little bit like falling off a log: once I get in a classroom or start spending time with a group of kids it is like coming home, it like arriving somewhere known, it is like hearing and speaking a long-abandoned but never-forgotten language. I know from having taught half a day for Rebecca last week that her classroom is a constructivist, creative, respectful and just very *real* environment where kids can be themselves and where I can be my teacher self too.

Now if only I didn't have to get up so early in the morning…

Your Drug Benefit Saved You...

You know how it always says that at the top of your Kaiser Permanente pharmacy receipt? I know it's there but I hardly ever look and the most recent time I went to have my prescriptions refilled, after my trip to the travel clinic last Thursday, I just shoved the claim check and receipt in my wallet like usual.

Tonight while cleanring out my bag I found it and was dumbfounded by what it said. Can you guess how much the "drug benefit" that is part of my health care plan saved me this time on all the drugs I'm taking along with me to guarantee my health for the next eight months?

$602.75

Do some people really not have medical insurance in this country? Sometimes I wonder why I am going all the way to Africa to try and make a difference when there is so much in need of change here in our own country.

Photo Shoot

As a way of introducing me to the NGO with whom I will be working during my volunteer placement in Africa starting next January, AJWS asked that I submit a cover letter detailing my career background and summarizing my professional skills. No big deal—I wrote it one morning, sent it to Rebecca at school to proofread during her prep time, and had it back that same afternoon essentially ready to go. Easy. They also asked that I send them a recent, color, head-and-shoulders digital photograph of myself so that the organization's administration can feel like they are getting to know me a little bit before I arrive. Ugh, not so easy. Years ago during my online dating heyday I had quite a few cute and quirky pictures of myself to send around when necessary, but all of those are dated now and most of them are less than professional. Anyone remember the one of me asleep on the trampoline at Melissa's birthday party? No? Good.

To remedy the situation, one of our household's Sunday afternoon projects today was a photo shoot out in the backyard to see what we could come up with for me to send to Africa as a form of self-introduction. This session was no amateur affair--we did it up professional-style complete with:

*wardrobe: I dug out a clean sweater from one of the three massive Rubbermaid bins in which all my clothes are stored and stacked in the middle of my bedroom floor

*hair: cut 15 minutes before across the street at Festoon, it still looked smooth and neat

*make-up (the ubiquitous Burt's Bees lip balm, original mint flavor)

Fifteen minutes and countless ridiculous pictures later here are a few that DIDN'T make the cut. Would you invite this woman to come be an integral part of your organization for four months and expect her to be able to make some sort of meaningful professional contribution? I would not.

Fortunately, however, Rebecca is an excellent photographer and we finally came up with a picture that makes me look like the rustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent prospective volunteer that I am. And the winner is...

the How Much Would You Pay? game (travel version)

Sometimes in my mind I play a totally false and unhelpful game called How Much Would I Pay?. Applicable to many circumstances, this game assumes a false sense of commerce in which real money can buy imaginary or perceived things.

A few examples of this game's rounds, past present and theoretical:
*How much would I pay for Jamie to give me the job at camp this summer?

*How much would I pay for the plumbing in our house to work so I could take a shower (a current incarnation of the game, evidenced by the Swiss landlord Mattias standing outside the bathroom wearing elbow-length dish gloves, rubber hipwaders, and a grim expression as he toils over a yard-waste-sized trash can full of grey water and a burned out, oil-spewing sewage pump)?

*How much would I pay to know where I'll be living in Jerusalem and working in Africa?

*How much would I pay to have this person fall in love with me?

This game is of course totally useless but can be an interesting way to distract oneself or try to pretend to have control over circumstances in which one is essentially powerless to effect change. It is often played when traveling and was first made public during my first trip to Israel when I went on Kivunim with Rebecca in 2004.

I had never been to the Middle East before, much less in July, and was overwhelmed by everything: the loud people the cramped spaces the insufferable heat and most of all, the unfamiliar food. Bulgarian cheese? Salad for breakfast? And what is in that cholent, exactly, anyway? With all my heart I longed for a burrito, my second-favorite food of all.

Quickly I learned that there is no Mexican food in Israel. A prominent feature of northern California cuisine, there are taquerias and Mexican restaurants in every San Francisco neighborhood--even Chinatown!--but none at all in Jerusalem. I heard a vague rumor there might be one in Tel Aviv, but no one seemed sure and the risk it would be to spend most of the afternoon and evening going all the way to the shore chasing dreams of a flauta or enchilada that might not even exist seemed too great. So for three weeks I dreamed of the cheesy, salsa-y, savory goodness that comes wrapped in aluminum foil for $3.75 at La Taqueria in the Mission...and slowly we began to play the How Much Would You Pay? game. I first told Rebecca I'd pay $20 for a burrito and by the time we were on the El Al flight back to New York three weeks later the price had gone up to $75...fortunately as soon as I got back home and went to El Balazo on Haight Street the veggie special (deluxe with sour cream and guacamole of course) was its usual $5.50 and I got to save the other $69.50 for a rainy day.

Today as I clean the house for Yom Kippur I am indulging, pre-un-fast, with coffee from Peet's and a corn cherry scone from Cheeseboard (the Berkeley version of Arizmendi from my old neighborhood). I can't help but think that these two luxuries will be the topic of How Much Would I Pay? sometime in the coming months. Marzipan, the bakery in the shuk in Jerusalem, IS second to none when it comes to cheese and potato and cinnamon and chocolate barekas but I am pretty sure there are no brioche knots or corn blueberry muffins to be had on that side of the Mediterranean Sea. For now I will not worry, I will just enjoy the one I have today.

Sukkot in Yosemite

Sometimes days pass and I hardly think about school, about teaching, about the place on Brotherhood Way that has been my home away from home (and sometimes even more of my home than that) the past six years. It's easy when my to-do list is long and living in Berkeley definitely helps but every now and then something catches my eye or my memory and I am schoolsick beyond measure. In moments like that I miss the classroom in which no one up until this year had taught but me, I miss pitching kickball at recess, I miss using the student whose official room job each week is "Special Delivery" to pass notes to other teachers who are my friends, I miss it all.

I missed school yesterday especially when, lying on the couch in semiconscious feverishness, I listened as Aubrie told me all the teachers who are going to Sukkot in Yosemite next week. Every few years our school packs it up right around now, the week after Yom Kippur, and heads up into the mountains to celebrate the wacky Jew holiday of Sukkot not in the desert of ancient Egypt but the wilderness of modern Yosemite. The first year I taught there was the first year we went and some families went, some families stayed behind in the city. This is now the third trip and there are seven hundred people who'll be there together. Seven hundred--is that even possible?! Some of my colleagues are leading hikes and some of them are leading art projects and some of them are leading Shabbat services and as for me I will be in Yosemite too, at camp, with a different community that I have chosen to become part of for now.

I can tell already that I will miss being with them terribly. I have been very schoolsick lately :(

Fever

Zack was right. This morning at Kaiser the travel nurse laughed at me when I told her I was going to do laps at the pool after my appointment--not because it was raining outside, but because of what she was putting in my arm. "You better swim fast, girl, if you're going at all because in four hours I guarantee you you're going to have a raging fever."

Ugh, so maybe three vaccinations in two days was too many after all. I spent the rest of the afternoon alternately sweaty and freezing, asleep on the couch oblivious to Oprah and whoever else fills the airwaves of daytime TV. "Do you want me to bring you anything to eat for dinner?" Aubrie asked on the phone, concerned, as the room swam around me and the very thought of food made my head hurt even more.

No, thanks...

I love my grandma, but my grandma hates that I go to Israel.

I have two grandmothers and they are both still alive. This post is about my Grandma Vanko, my mom's mom. Grandma's name has at times in the past been Baba because that is the Slovak word for "grandmother" and both sides of my family come from what is now the Czech Republic so many of my elders speak Slovak or Czech or both.

My grandma is one of the most sassy, powerful women I have ever met. A number of years ago when I was trying to decide whether or not to end a very long-term relationship I was in, I called her because she made a similar life decision for herself when she was in her 60's and I knew she would be able to tell me what to do. Grandma lives independently in a house she bought with her own money and that she completely fixed up on her own. She does not color her hair and does not like it when I do either (but I stopped in April so we are on better terms about that now, even though I do not like the way it looks).

She calls herself the Bionic Grandma because she has had three knee replacements. When I went to see Grandma recently we frosted brownies and looked at pictures and something she said really made me cry but only because I love her so much. She is very detail-oriented and loves to stay organized and in touch with people. When writing letters to her friends and family, Grandma uses her Smith-Corona Selectric typewriter and puts the finished products in the mail. Grandma does not use the Internet, but does read this blog because her son, my Uncle Andy, prints out the posts and takes them to her house and reads them to her.

I thought of my grandmother this morning when I was writing the post about buying my plane ticket because I know it will upset her. Ever since I started going to Israel three years ago, Grandma has not been happy about it in the least. She prays and prays all the time while I am there so St. Christopher protects me and I think she even uses St. Jude, patron saint of hopeless cases, from time to time because if you have a 33-year-old spinster granddaughter who was brought up in a good Catholic home and is now running around the Middle East going to classes at the university and having tea with the Bedouins in their tents, well what more of a hopeless case is there than that.

I hope that she and my uncle both laugh out loud at that last line when he reads it to her :)

Thank you, Grandma, for all of your help protecting me every time I've traveled. I know you do not like it but I also know you are proud of me for doing it, that you are one of the strong women who showed me I could do it by going on your own adventures to Southern California all those winters and let's not forget your cruise to Alaska! It is true, I am going to live in Israel for three months and I know you are not happy but I know you will pray for me and I promise you I will do everything I can to stay safe.

$1,322 plus taxes and fees

...is the amount I just paid Zoe's mom Mary, my travel agent, for my plane ticket. I had waffled back and forth about departure dates and return dates, round-the-world vs. segment by segment, which itinerary was being paid for by AJWS and which itinerary I am paying out of pocket, and finally now that it is the 7th of the month of Tishrei (a good omen when it comes to new beginnings, for me at least) I decided to stop playing Russian roulette with airfares, I decided to accept the fact that the price might come down between now and then as it often does, I decided that for my own certainty of spirit and sanity of mind it was time to buy my ticket.

And of course, money is very relative: the amount I spent this morning in one phone call to Third Millenium Travel (ask for Mary) is only slightly more than a dear girlfriend of mine who will remain nameless recently spent on special occasion lingerie, is just a few hundred dollars less than my brother Nathan and sister-in-teeth Kelli spent a few months ago on a new shed for their backyard in Burlington, Iowa. We all use our resources differently. As Rebecca pointed out, this will likely be my greatest single expense for the entire year. That does not, however, change the fractional amount of my total budget that this amount of money represents...but as our friends who live in Meah She'arim say, "G-d will provide." So that's that. On October 3rd I am leaving the Bay Area for Mark and Rebecca's wedding in New Hampshire, on October 9th I am leaving the States and I will not be back for a very long time.

I just keep thinking of Zack and the fact that if he could do it, I can do it. I'm not sure I've ever really told him how integral his stories and pictures, how instrumental his email and blog was in showing me that this kind of traveling really is possible. I hope you're not too tired, my Aussie friend--I've been channeling you a lot lately and not just in the travel medicine clinic. Thank you for all you've taught me, travel-related and otherwise, about the wild and precious potential of this life.

Guarantee of Health

There is a form I need to fill out in preparation for the time I will spend volunteering in Africa.

(note: I know some people specifically object to saying "Africa" rather than naming a given country. They feel it is uniquely disrespectful to overgeneralize in such a way...but in this case, I do not yet know in where specifically I will be working so I will go ahead and just name the continent for lack of more detailed information.)

This is the "Guarantee of Health" form which seems like a funny name for a document to me. I know it means that my health is guaranteed now, but it kind of makes it sound like my health will be guaranteed by the process of filling out this form and for the duration of time that I am there, which I am resigned to realizing is completely false.

In order to complete the Guarantee of Health form one must receive or have proof of having received many innoculations. This means that over the past two weeks, including today at two separate appointments, I have been getting lots of shots and bloodwork. My WHO (World Health Organization) Yellow Card, the passport-sized paperwork proving one's immunization history and a badge of honor to some global travelers, is filling up rapidly. By the time I leave I will be (almost) Guaranteed not to contract the following diseases:

*measles
*mumps
*rubella
*polio
*tetanus
*typhoid
*pneumonia
*Hepatitis, both A and B
*meningitis
*yellow fever
*rabies

...and will be able to prove that I am not a carrier of the following illnesses:
*Hepatitis C
*TB
*HIV
*various other STIs

...and will have dished out a series of co-pays at the pharmacy to protect me from, or if necessary treat, the following conditions:
*malaria
*altitude sickness
*pregnancy
*yeast infections
*sinus infections
*dysentery

Having spent the last twelve years being constantly coughed and sneezed on, I can honestly say if at any point in my adult life my Health is Guaranteed it is right now. That does not change the fact that my left arm is sore, swollen, and bruised. Small price to pay I suppose?

Shanah Tovah Kulam!

Shanah tovah, a good new year to everyone :) Rosh HaShanah began Wednesday night and despite my confusion and frustration that previous plans to spend the holiday in the city completely fell through, I was able with no problem at all (except the $95) to get tickets to services with Mark and Rebecca at Chochmat HaLev, the Renewal congregation here in Berkeley. What a new and different experience *that* was...

The past four years I have davened Rosh HaShanah at Congregation Emanu-El, one of the Reform congregations in San Francisco and what seems to be at times the unofficial synagogue of our school. The High Holidays at Emanu-El involve lipstick from MAC and suits from Ann Taylor, bag searches and metal detectors, and most of all being aware of the current and former parents sitting all around you and having to be on your best behavior as a result even when what you really want to do is hold hands with the person next to you and space out because the service is starting to drag on. Everything from people's clothes and jewelry to the rabbi's British sports car is quite fancy and I always felt like I was working even though I was not at school.

This year was so very much not like that and I did not realize until I was surrounded by people dancing barefooted circles in the aisles and waiting in line to meditate in the Torah Tent constructed on the bimah what a relief I felt at the difference. Chochmat is a colorful mix of everything from aging hippies who followed the Grateful Dead in their van to religious women in wigs and pancake foundation to gay lesbian bisexual transgender mixed-race interfaith couples who bring free-range organic snacks for their foreign-born, stateside-adopted children to eat when services get long. The community is both very inclusive and very respectful, something I noticed immediately upon entering the First Presbyterian Church where we were welcoming in the new year that night and the next morning. Signage everywhere informed me of pews reserved for families with young children, seats designated as scent-free for people with chemical sensitivies, areas of the sanctuary where noise from the lobby can be heard and might potentially be distracting, and the location of the meditation room if needed or desired during the course of the evening.

More than anything I enjoyed being anonymous, not being Ms. Kotleba for once but instead being Sarah, being just another person in flowy white Israeli-style new year's clothing chanting the Shema as the sun went down. As Erev Rosh HaShanah drew to a close and we made our way home for the night to put on our pajamas and watch Season One of Entourage, I looked out the window of the Volvo at the moon-free star-strewn East Bay sky and wondered about this brand new year 5768. In my mind I began to create my own version of the U'Netaneh Tokef, the prayer recited on Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur in wonder of what may take place in the coming year that unfolds after the observance of these ten Days of Awe. The traditional text asks us to consider these things:

On Rosh HaShanah shall be written
and on Yom Kippur shall be sealed
how many will pass from the world
and how many will be created,
who will live and who will die.
Who by water, who by fire,
who by sword, who by beast,
who by famine, and who by thirst.
Who will rest
and who will wander,
who will become poor
and who will become rich,
who will be lowered down
and who will be lifted up.

...but as we drove north on MLK and the breeze blowing through the windows mixed with Mark and Rebecca's murmurs from the front seat, I sat back in silence and asked the new moon and the new year my own questions.

Where will I go and what will I see?
When will I depart and when will I return?
Who will I lose touch with and who will I meet?
What will I teach and what will I learn?
How will I love and how will I be loved?
Why am I traveling this year?

Rebecca taught me once that to her, every new year is meant to become either one of questions or one of answers. This year seems like it will be both for me.

Can You Hear Me Now?

Thinking I was a good problem-solver, and aware of the fact that my current cell phone (dubbed the "Nokiasaurus" by Aubrie because it is so ancient) barely even works here in the Bay Area much less anywhere else in the world, I got online and researched global cell phone use.

I learned about locked and unlocked phones, SIM cards, quad-band GSM, and service programs offered by cellular providers around the world. After days of research I bought a brand-new in-the-unopened-box phone from an electronics "store" on eBay that seemed as if it would meet my every need. Made by Nokia and released just this past spring, my new phone-to-be would do everything from convert my currency to take my picture to wake me up in the morning. Awesome.

When I got home today I saw that it had come in the mail. Excitedly I opened it, skimmed the owner's manual, charged the battery, popped in my old SIM card from the Nokiasaurus, and turned on my slim new piece of modern global communication technology.

Every menu option, every display, every on-screen help text was in...Japanese.

*sigh*

So much for all that research--I am back to square one and back to using my good old Nokiasaurus, for now at least.

Skype Is Amazing

I realize that for many people who have been using it for awhile, this is not big news. Having never experienced Skype before, however, I as a new devotee am overwhelmingly impressed.

When I lived in Jerusalem from June to August, 2006, I had no need to become familiar with Skype because we had an American phone line and a US phone number in our house. We also had an Israeli phone line and phone number as well as three people all of whom had at least two cell phones, plus of course we had the Internet so needless to say we were very connected. The American phone at that house on Rehov Amatzia actually rang like the landline phones here in the States all do: ring...ring...much to my surprise the first time it happened, since in Israel phones ring old school-style: ring ring...ring ring...but at least that way we could always tell which phone needed to be answered.

Today after much Skype-tag, despite the fact that it was midnight in Jerusalem, I got to talk to Tal for about half an hour which was such a delightful treat after my earlier activities of the morning: taking BART to the shuttle to Kaiser in Oakland where I got the first of a series of three rabies vaccinations at the adult injection clinic. GAAH. Thank you sir, may I have another? That is a whole different experience for an entirely different post because let me just say, if one is going all the places I am going there are MANY innoculations that are required. But a full "yellow card," the official document authorized by the World Health Organization to prove one's immunization status for various diseases, is as much a badge of traveling honor as a round the world ticket so I am trying to focus on the positive...

Back to Skype, back to Tal: Tal (last name to remain undisclosed for the purposes of privacy) was a student of mine two years ago and I adore her. Smart, honest, thoughtful, creative, and fair, Tal was such a delight to have in my classroom and very fortunately for me I have had the chance to stay in touch with her ever since. Her mom, Debby, is a colleague of mine and we learned together in a teaching fellowship this past school year as well as having worked side-by-side as mentors a few years ago in the DeLeT program at Hebrew Union College. For all these reasons I have had the incredible opportunity to become friends with and remain connected to everyone in their family, including Boaz and Edan, Tal's dad and brother, both of whom coincidentally enough have the same birthday as me. We've seen each other at school, at the huge fun parties Debby and Boaz have in their gorgeous home here in San Francisco, and in Jerusalem at Tal's birthday party two summers ago when everyone in her family was over at her grandparents' house in French Hill and I got to come over for cake and ice cream the fourth night I was in Israel, when I was so homesick and had no friends yet and was beyond grateful to see familiar faces, much less have them give me party favors.

So now Tal is in Jerusalem with her mom and brother, her dad is joining them next month, and she took me on a tour all around their apartment by carrying the laptop with webcam from room to room. I saw the kitchen, the hallway, the bedroom, the "clutter-ish" room which is their office, and even out the porch to the midnight lights of the buildings below. After Tal and I had finished I talked to Debby very briefly but it was so very late there and they were all tired and ready for bed, so we will talk again soon but I could not have been happier to actually see them over the Internet, to hear their voices from half a world away. They are really in Jerusalem, they are where I am going. "Did Tal show you where you get to sleep once you get here?" Debby asked me.

This is really happening, this is going to work out after all...and, as Rebecca would so sagely say, "Mah zeh work out?" Translated: "What is it, work out?"...a Heblish expression meaning that perhaps there are many different ways that things can work out, after all.

Shanah tovah, a sweet new year to everyone. With the help of Skype I could see into the future this afternoon, as I sat here in overcast midday Berkeley I could see the warm darkness and star-strewn sky of Jerusalem where the new year 5768 has already begun. That is where I am going, to Israel, and that is where all of us are going, into this new year together. May we go in peace.

OAK

For five days, from Saturday to Wednesday, I was in the midwest. Now that I live in Berkeley I use the Oakland airport which is such a source of considerable sorrow to me; gone are the cosmopolitan days of hipster SFO, people from all corners of the world and walks of life meandering or in some cases bustling about, toting packages of all shapes and sizes the contents of which I can only begin to imagine. One time I even felt like the protagonist from the book Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day when in a mind-bending moment of almost- time travel I found a boarding pass on the ground from a flight that had departed later that same day from Sydney, Australia and already arrived in San Francisco. Ah, the powers of the International Date Line.

My favorite thing to do there is check in really early for my own flight, get a cup of Peet's with cream and brown sugar from the kiosk in Terminal 1 by the security checkpoint near the United gates, then go sit in the International Terminal. On the modular, modern benches I sip my coffee, backpack on the floor near my feet and journal in my lap, alternately watching the people and reading the boards, imagining all the planes I could possibly board that very day, considering all the places I might go:

Bangkok or Beijing?
Paris or Panama City?
Sydney or Santiago?
Tokyo or Taipei?

I have spent time sitting in a lot of airports, and I have a feeling that is not going to change anytime soon. I like that feeling :)

All those globe-trotting fantasies aside, I return to my original disappointing realization that for this most recent trip at least such cosmopolitanality (is that a word?) was not part of my journey as my flight to Dallas and on to O'Hare left from Oakland. Oakland, like Midway in Chicago, where the vast majority of flights are on Southwest and almost every plane taking off, regardless of airline, is going to either Phoenix or Kansas City. Sigh... I felt the weight of my own inner snobbish traveler weighing heavily upon me. "Can't you see?" I wanted to tell my fellow passengers at Gate 21. "I don't usually use this airport! I fly to places like Auckland and Zurich, Toronto and Tel Aviv! I have a passport and travel on flights of such great duration and to such distant places that the passengers are still served meals!"

It reminded me of something Sarah wrote to me this past summer, having arrived in Spain after almost three weeks in Israel and then the same amount of time in Tanzania, having done everything from prayed at the Kotel to climbed Kilimanjaro and maybe even dined in a foreign sidewalk cafe or two somewhere along the way for good measure. Having spent time in far-flung airports with unfamiliar three-letter codes like MAD (Madrid) and ADD (Addis Ababa), she was sending email from the luxury of the beach town of Sitges where she drank beer on the beach with topless women while listening to her hostess tell stories of just-completed summer travel through places slightly more tame than the Middle East or sub-Saharan Africa.

"...laura told me about her trip to eastern europe tonight with (someone relatively prominent in the Jewish community) and i listened, feeling somehow, in a weird sort of way like the experienced traveler in the room. i have become very accustomed to being on the road in a wonderful sort of way. this trip has reminded me just how much i love to travel: to see new places, get lost in new streets, and meet the people behind a place or the pages of their book..."

I find that I often think like this, I am at times elitist in my journeys, I roll my eyes at the person in line in front of me checking in for a flight or getting on an airplane, the person who does not know how to use the self check-in machine or who tries to show their driver's license to the gate agent prior to going down the jetway. Oh, such novices, I think to myself.

Then I remember the first time I flew alone from Chicago to Detroit to Boston and was so scared that I had to pay $12 a minute to use the AirPhone in the back of the seat in front of me to call my best friend...the time I was detained at customs in Montreal because the metronome in my carry-on was mistaken for a bomb...the first time I traveled terrifyingly alone, without Rebecca, to Israel when jetlagged and overwhelmed I mistakenly tried to get in a sherut (shared ride van) going to the completely wrong part of the country (Beersheva in the Negev) and was assertively redirected into an individual taxi going to my actual destination (Jerusalem) by the 90-year-old grande dame Israeli woman who had been seated next to me on my flight from Zurich to Tel Aviv.

I need to take a more active approach to adjusting my travel attitude. Eveyone's got to start somewhere, and for some people that is at the Southwest ticket counter in Oakland.