Goal Achieved

Rebecca, my source for all things hip and delightful on the Internet, recently turned me on to a way that I sometimes sit and waste my time now when I'm online and should be looking for an apartment.

http://www.43things.com

I was hooked immediately and did not even have to stop and think before entering my first goal: Facilitate a Revolution. This was something Sarah and I used to talk about a lot, mostly in the context of school but also in the context of life: how could we help people to see their own strengths, to identify things they wanted to be different, to bring about change? We recognized, I recognize that a revolution of any sort--political, sociological, spiritual, emotional, interpersonal--is never the work of one select person or of a chosen few but rather is the result of the effort and energy of a group working together to create something greater than the sum of its parts. Even though Sarah and I are no longer partners is revolutionary crime and I am now an individual agent for change, I still believe wholeheartedly in the worthiness of my goal and I still work towards making it happen, in big and small ways, in whatever circumstance I can.

My goal was achieved at school last Thursday when unfortunately my revolution-facilitating skills rose up and took hold of a situation without me even orchestrating it, completely disrupting one of my fifth grade classes and requiring a lengthy and vociferious intervention from their other English teacher to get things back on track. The students had just come back from aruchat v'hafsakah, morning snack and recess, and it was time to recite Birkat HaMazon, the blessing after meals. Just as the class and all three teachers (that is how many of us there are on Thursdays in 4th, 5th, and 6th grade because it is Reading Assessment day, an initiative spearheaded by yours truly and potential grounds for another revolutions entirely) began to recite the blessing all the boys dug around in the pencil boxes and backpacks for their kippot, or yarmulkes, and so did I.

For the past six or so years I have chosen to wear a kippah while participating in Jewish rituals or events, and am known among my circle of friends and students for my trademark: the watermelon kippah. So on this day, as on any other, I pulled it from my bag and clipped it onto my head to say the blessing.

"WHAT? WHAT? WHY IS SARAH WEARING KIPPAH? SHE'S NOT A BOY! SHE IS FROM AMERICA AND IN AMERICA ONLY REFORM JEWS WEAR KIPPAH! THEY ALSO WEAR TALLIT--SARAH MAYBE WEARS TALLIT! REFORM JEWS ARE NOT REAL JEWS! SARAH IS NOT A BOY AND ALSO IS NOT JEWISH! WHY IS SARAH WEARING THAT WATERMELON KIPPAH?!"

Yelling, pointing, people up out of the seats jumping up and down...this required, as do many student behavioral matters, Judy to bang on the teacher desk over and over with her text book to restore order. The Birkat HaMazon long abandoned, we three teachers tried to have a conversation with the class about appearance, assumptions, Jewish identity, pluralism, and the fact that Rashi's daughter used to lay tefillin but all hope of a teachable moment was lost and finally we gave up and I took off my kippah and we started reading groups. Some of the boys refused to come read with me, so rankled were they by my watermelon.

Long ago Chaim told me that the Jewish community at Brandeis is not like the Jewish community anywhere else and I believed him, in theory, but in reality I had nothing to which I could compare it. I am learning now in practice exactly what he meant. Will I still wear my kipppah at school? I plan to. It is my hope that as part of facilitating the revolution, of supporting the process of dialogue among my students, the shouting will stop and the listening will begin--them to me, and also me to them. We'll see.

Coming Soon to a Blog Near You: A Preview

For whatever reason, I have spent a significant amount of my free-choice time lately updating my virtual profile on Facebook. As a result there are very bloggable stories from my actual life which have gone as-of-yet untold, including:

*the recent revolt I unwittingly incited at school

*ongoing confusion in the community about who I am, anyway

*my trip to Kol HaNeshamah Friday night

*why I was grabbed by a policeman outside my house yesterday

*becoming That Girl (well, not quite...) in the Alef-Ploos class in my new ulpan

Stay tuned!

My Favorite Graffiti

On her offical website, author Elizabeth Gilbert explains two important lessons she learned from the trip she took around the world: everyone we meet has something to teach us, and there are clues and messages for us everywhere.

Spotted in Alameda shortly before I left the States:Spotted in a parking lot on my way to school last week:

Other Unique Things, Part One: Inside

A recent post with an image of our over-the-sink dish drainer was immensely popular, much more so than I had predicted it would be. Along the same lines this post and the next one will offer a few examples of other unique things, both within and beyond the house, that I have discovered during my two weeks here so far.

The good news: We have a washer and dryer right here in our apartment, in a little laundry/utility room behind the kitchen where I sometimes sit on the floor and talk with my friends via Skype late at night while everyone else is in bed, asleep.

The bad news: There are no words or directions on the control panel of the washer, and all the temperature settings are of course in degrees Celcius. So far nothing has shrunk into the Barbie-clothes realm and my clothes seem mostly clean.
Some like it hot: Solar power warms our water during the day with the assistance of a device called a dud shemesh, or sun heater. The dud is a massive cistern that sits on the roof and absorbs the rays of the sun, using energy already present in the environment to make our showers comfortable. This is an effective and eco-friendly approach that works well until someone somewhere in the building washes all of lot of dishes and all the hot water gets used up. Then we need to use our own individual dud that is in a closet in the hallway. The switch looks like this:

Let there be light: Who decided to put light switches a) outside of the rooms they affect b) so high up that no one under the age of eight can use them?Coming soon: Unique things found outside the house.

It Is Not As Hot Here Today

Notice I did not say it is cool, because it is not. It is not even just warm. It is hot and it has been hot every single day of the two and a half weeks I've been here. In that way it is kind of like at camp over the summer, where it was also hot every day. Basically since I left San Francisco on June 17th, itself an unseasonably warm and sunny day in the city, I have experienced ceaselessly hot weather. Tawonga, Berkeley, New Hampshire--oh where it did rain one day and we built a big fire in the fireplace and I actually wore a sweater--Jerusalem: hot, hot , hot and hot. I think I am making up for eight years of foggy, damp, and chilly weather in San Francisco all at once, week after week and month after month.

I find I have the right clothes for this climate (all five pairs of pants and four shirts) but totally the wrong shoes. I brought Keens and Danskos but they have gone as of yet unused, I have been wearing my Chacos every day and I am horrified, both from a style standpoint and from a cleanliness standpoint. Outdoorsy rubber sandals are so not hip anywhere but especially here where there is Gazith to put my currently-amphibious feet to shame.

I might have to spring for a pair of sandals. When in Rome…

Where Were You?

That's the question everyone's asking one another today. "Where were you when you heard, where were you when you got the news?" People are asking, are remembering not what they were doing when they learned of the attack on Pearl Harbor or the tragedy of September 11. Israelis are recounting, are memorializing not the sudden shocking deaths of John F. Kennedy or Martin Luther King Jr. but the loss of their own iconic statesman Yitzchak Rabin.

A dozen years ago, on the 12th of the month of Cheshvan in the year 5756 on a day corresponding to November 4th, 1995 on the Gregorian calendar Yitzchak Rabin was assassinated as he left a peace rally in Tel Aviv. His killer, a religious man named Yigal Amir, staunchly disagreed with Rabin's support of the Oslo Accords and stated in a police interview the night of Rabin's death that he meant to "paralyze (Rabin) politically." When asked by the police interrogator if he regretted having taken the prime minister's life with his own hands, Amir replied "Heaven forbid." Of course, he did not.

In the lobby and downstairs hallway at school today a large series of panels commemorating the life and accomplishments of Rabin, as well as paying tribute to other world leaders whose lives have been lost to assassins, stood where Kitot Alef, Bet, and Gimel (First, Second, and Third Grade) usually dance to traditional Israeli folk music at recess. Tonight I attended a memorial service in the neighborhood synagogue down the street from our apartment, rising at the end with those assembled to sing the State of Israel's national anthem, HaTikvah--The Hope--for the first time ever while here in the Land itself. Tomorrow I understand there may be a memorial siren sounded, as is done each spring on Yom HaZikaron—The Day of Remembrance—at which time everyone will cease their activities, will stop secular pursuits like driving and sacred pursuits like praying and everything in between, to be still for a moment. In silence all of Israel will remember the man whose political life brought unprecedented hope to its people and whose sudden, shocking death brought indescribable sorrow to allies and adversaries alike all around the world.

Three summers ago on my first trip to Israel I stood with two dozen fellow educators and our teacher, the inspiring and incomparable Peter Geffen, around the graves of Rabin and his wife Leah in the military cemetery at Har Herzel. He led us in a slow and solemn version of Od Yavo Shalom Aleinu, or May Peace Yet Come Upon Us:

Salaam
Aleinu v'al Kol ha Olam
Salaam, Shalom

Peace
To us and all the world
Peace, peace

Just a few months ago, in July of this year, I stood on a wooden deck drilled into an age-old granite boulder in Yosemite. On a Saturday morning in Makom Shalom, Camp Tawonga's sanctuary whose name in English means Place of Peace, I stood beside the songleaders Gal and Isaac with the Torah spread out on a table in front of us, in front of the community and sang this same song with all of them, this time with the Arabic words taught to us by the visiting Palestinian Muslim campers and staff:

Siahelo asalemo al aina
Wal al jamia
(with apologies for the butchered Arabic transliteration)

More peace over us
And over the world

That is what the man beside whose grave I stood, the man who perished even before the birth of the 10 year olds who read tonight in synagogue the words of his final address, wanted: peace for us here in Israel, peace for all the world, peace for you wherever you are. Two days after Rabin's death President Bill Clinton stood beside leaders from around the Middle East and throughout the world, eulogizing the loss of Israel's prime minister during the week in which the Torah tells of the testing of Abraham and the near-sacrifice of his own son whose name Rabin shared. One Yitzchak saved, one lost. The final words of that eulogy continue to resonate through the lexicon of Israel's history: "Shalom, chaver," President Clinton said in conclusion. Goodbye, friend.

It's a bird! It's a plane! It's...Jordan!

Last week on Thursday I was tutoring Lian, one of my three private students, and suddenly in the middle of our lesson on uppercase letters and the sounds they make she grabbed my arm and said, "Sarah—Look! I saw a big blue flash in the sky outside!"

Considering the fact that Lian's family lives on the hillside just above the road dividing East Jerusalem from Issaweia, the neighboring Arab village, I was concerned that this was maybe a sign of bad things but looking out the sliding glass door in the direction she was pointing I saw the same flash repeated again in silhouette against the early evening sky. An autumn lightning storm, the first of the season, had begun and a breathtaking show was unfolding in the heavens above coupled with a sonorous accompaniment of thunder shaking the ground below.

Through the rest of our lesson, all of dinner, and most of the evening the storm continued. It was not until almost bedtime when Debby and I went to the roof to survey the rain's damage to the freshly-hung laundry that the showers had stopped and the sky was clear, and as we gazed out to the east I saw a cluster of lights up high on a ridge that I had not seen before across the dust-choked skies of the desert beyond Issaweia. "What city is that?" I asked, pointing and expecting her to say it was Ramallah. "Ahh," said Debby, "That's Amman."

On a clear day some say they can see forever; on a clear night I can see Jordan from my roof.

Ex-Pat Fiesta!

There are many delicious foods available here in Israel:

Humus: ground garbanzo beans with olive oil and zatar, a Middle Eastern seasoning

Falafel: balls of fried deliciousness served in a sliced-open pita with humus, salat (diced tomatoes and cucumbers in a vinegary sauce) and chips (French fries)

Bamba: a peanut-flavored puffed corn snack shaped like Cheetos

Milki: available in the yogurt section of your grocer's dairy case, it comes in individual packs and is essentially chocolate pudding with a layer of whipped cream on top…mmm I am eating some even now as I type this

..but there is one food that is notably absent, a staple of Bay Area life, that I have been craving: The Burrito. Considering how many foreigners live and/or work here you'd think someone would have caught on and opened a taqueria but no such luck so far. Future business venture? Hey if that guy can have an entire restaurant in Christchurch, New Zealand, that sells only nachos I don't see why it wouldn't work here. Hmmm...

As described in an earlier post about the How Much Would You Pay game, the imaginary cost of a burrito has risen, on previous trip to Israel, as high as $75 for me in the past. Now that time was different because I was only here for three weeks and knew a burrito was never long off; however, in the present moment a burrito of any quality is likely seven months away at the earliest so I cannot really get my hopes up any time soon.

To quell our entire household's burrito cravings, Debby made quesadillas the other night with materials purchased at the super across the street. All the ingredients were imported from outside of Israel according to the labels, not local food at all—Rebecca would disapprove—and the whole endeavor was really expensive but we were all delighted at the presence of such comfort food and so, of course, I had to take pictures.

Not Fun

It is Shabbat and I have a fever and even though I have a lot of things to write here from the last few days it is 9:30 in the morning and I am going back to bed.

One Of Many Reasons I Love Aaron

I have lived in Jerusalem for a week. That's all--lived. Not studied in a prestigious program or researched in a preeminent library or dug at a landmark excavation. Today I did go to visit the school where I will be volunteering and conducting the observations and analyses that pertain to my sabbatical's study question regarding teacher education in varied learning communities around the globe, but aside from that I have just lived.

Living in Jerusalem for me right now means:

•riding the bus downtown for a reason I can't explain and running into Ariela, the gardener from camp this summer and one of my self-appointed assistants in the Jewish Education department, who is now studying in Bat Ayin

•being invited to Shabbat dinner by Rahel because "we are all under the jet lag and need your energy to come be with us and help bring in Shabbat!"

•going to the shopping center across the street with Tal and buying glittery nail polish to have Spa Night on the couch

•riding on the back of Eyal's motorcycle (don't worry, Grandma) to get late-night ice cream even though it's 50 degrees out

•having the professional opportunity to attend a Hebrew class for Arabic-speaking Palestinian women

•and, receiving this email from Aaron just when I was suffering most from the sin of comparison about the fact that my colleague, housemate, and friend Debby is a fellow in the single most heavily-funded program the Jewish Agency of Israel supports and one of the two most prestigious learning opportunities in the entire country while at the same time I am "just" living in Jerusalem:

And don't feel the need to knock yourself for wandering and not having the biggest fancy scholarship. This comment doesn't have anything to do with the fact that I'm currently piecing together a very last minute and slapdash application for an enormous National Science Foundation grant while a labmate of mine is putting finishing touches on a very cool, very relevant, very put together project for another very prestegious grant from the EPA. A Rebbe whose name I've forgotton talked about a little apple seed that's waiting in the ground. It keeps asking "am I a tree yet?" and every morning the answer is no. So the earth has to help the seed. It has to give the seed strength to wait and it has to remind the little seed that it isn't just a little seed: it's ten thousand apples. So both of us together is twenty thousand, and that's a whole lotta of pies.

The View From The Top: The Tour, Part Two

The other night Edan and I went up on the roof to fly the parachute we made out of a plastic bag from the makolet (corner store) and a Lego man. The sunset and views were so amazing that I went back down to the apartment and got my camera. This is what twilight in Jerusalem looks like from the roof of our building.

Here is where we hang our laundry. I put my white sweater up there to dry on Monday and when I went back up there today to get it it was gone.

This is Edan flying his parachute. While trying new parachute-launching techniques, Edan accidentally flew his creation into someone's underpants. Ha! Notice the Crocs, trademark of every Israeli schoolkid. I love that his are purple. Mine are just plain black and I feel pretty uncool as a result. And, the view from our kitchen window that caught our attention and prompted our trip to the roof in the first place. Classically Israeli elements of this image include the apartment buildings all faced with architecturally and municipally mandated Jerusalem stone, the ever-present air raid siren, and the sun setting to the west over Bethlehem. The Middle East, our home sweet home for now, is both incomparably tortured and inexplicably beautiful and this photograph captures that well I think.

Code-Switching, or You're Asking a Question?

Once when I was living in the Outer Richmond and shopping at Thom's Natural Foods Store on Geary, the Russian woman who worked there as a cashier said something very interesting to me. "What language did you speak growing up?" she wanted to know.

"English," I said, "why?"

"I grew up speaking Russian and I learned to speak English when I was older. You speak to me the way I myself speak, like people who learn English later in life."

As a language acquisition specialist I found this intriguing and have considered it often ever since. It is true for me, I think: there is a way I speak English with native speakers and then there is also a way I speak with to non-native speakers, a way I find myself speaking often here in Israel.

My ability to unconsciously discern which if these two dialects is needed in any given conversational situation is fascinating to me, and my skill at navigating effortlessly back and forth between the two—a technique known among language teachers as "code switching"—is something I've long studied but never had a chance to experience first hand. I observe a notable difference between the English I speak in the house with Debby, Tal, and Edan and the English I speak as soon as I step outside the door and into the street.

The most evident thing to me is the way I ask questions here. The 5W's and One H which I work so diligently to teach my Third Graders (Who? What? When? Where? Why? and How?) have all but disappeared from my oral vocabulary, replaced by statements hallmarked by the "question sound" (another Third Grade term, more commonly described in the linguistic world as "rising vocal action") at the end.

You're hungry for falafel?

This bus goes downtown?

The apartment is still available?

I can buy these tomatoes by the kilo or I must buy the whole box?

Fascinating…

HaBayit Shelanu, Our House: The Tour, Part One

For now my home in Jerusalem is in French Hill with the Arzt-Mors: my colleague and friend Debby who is also on sabbatical from my school this year and is enrolled in a very prestigious program for senior educators at Hebrew University, her daughter and my former student/current roommate Tal, and her son Edan. Here are some pictures of our apartment.

This is a picture of Edan doing his homework in the living room. He is sitting at the table where we eat. He has a terrible cold, hence the roll of toilet paper.
This is Debby's computer which we use for Skype because mine is too slow. Skype, as I have mentioned before, is awesome and we talk to people all over the world for free.
This picture of our kitchen includes a few classically Israeli elements: the white electrical appliance that looks like a coffee pot which has as its sole purpose the boiling of water and is used in place of a tea kettle, the metallic silver dish scrubber (they also come in a copper color), and the blue post-it note on the front of the lower cabinet just to the left of the dish towel which reads "chalavi" and indicates that this is where the dairy set of dishes is kept in our kosher kitchen.
Another thing I've never seen outside of Jerusalem: the cabinet-mounted dish drain which is positioned such that your freshly-washed kitchenware drips into your sink.
And the part of the house where I'm headed now since it's just past midnight: my bed. Not usually this messy but it was laundry-folding day plus time to finally finish unpacking my luggage this afternoon.
We took lots more pictures, including some gorgeous shots of the neighborhood from the roof at sunset. Look forward to them in Part Two of the tour...coming soon!

Seeing and Being Seen, Or Not: (Not Always A) Small Jewish World

Two interesting things have happened in my world of social networking since arriving in Jerusalem five days ago.

First:
Thirty-six hours after my plane landed I literally ran into one person I knew was here but who I was certain there'd be no way I'd encounter. I had not seen or spoken with her in probably three years. We shared a meal, a crazy bus ride, a walk in the rain, and a taxi Saturday night. I have no idea when I will see or hear from her again.

Second:
I'd spent much of the week in New Hampshire prior to my arrival with someone more than fabulous whom I had met on my first trip to Jerusalem in 2004 and seen a few times since then while here in Israel. Despite an autumn-in-New-England rainy-day conversation while watching ping pong during which we made plans to meet this past Shabbat he has not called, sent email, or materialized in any other way. I do not think I will end up seeing him after all. Disappointing.

Both these examples fall into the catch-all category of explanations for anything unusual that happens here: "only in Israel..."

Developmentally Appropriate

Last night, after going to view my first potential apartment here in Jerusalem (small, clean, affordable, potentially unusual housemate/landlord) I went out for tea with Eyal at Restobar. We were comparing notes about our day and I bragged to him that while at the Hebrew University Akademon purchasing materials to use with my new tutoring student, I paid with my debit card for the first time since arriving Wednesday night (having up until yesterday's trip to the bookstore taken Matt's cash-only approach, except in shekel form instead of dollars) and after a year of practicing was able to sign my name in Hebrew.

"You signed your name, that's great! Very impressive..." he teased, not having heard over the din of the bar that I had signed it from right to left in a language I only learned to write a year ago. I persisted in my pride, explaining my very applicable use of Hebrew to buy my books, and finally he understood. "Ah, b'Ivrit, in Hebrew!" he said, "very good. Please show me your beautiful signature." Taking the pen and receipt he handed me I carefully scribed the nine letters of my first and last name:

sin
resh
hay

koof
the vav that makes the "o" sound
tet
lamed
bet
hay

"Your writing looks so childish--you should really practice," Eyal advised in truly honest Israeli fashion. In my own defense I pointed out that I am a child when it comes to writing in this language, having only learned how to do it last July.

"And what about you, can you read English in cursive?" I replied challengingly, sure I would trump him on this lexographic point.

"Eh, no..." he admitted sheepishly.

"And how long have you been learning English? All your life in the Israeli school system and intensively for years in the Army? That's what I thought," I said, satisfied. Who you calling a handwriting baby? So there.

A Different Kind of Shabbat in Jerusalem

Yesterday was my first Shabbat in Jerusalem in more than a year. I remember the last Shabbat I spent here in July, 2006, walking alone amidst hundreds of other pilgrims through darkened streets to the Kotel and then having a meal at a Russian family's beet-rich dinner where I was confused for Aeli's Australian wife.

This recent Shabbat was much more chill, full of Skype and trans-Atlantic phone calls and laughter at Debby's parents' house on Friday night and a trip to the swimming pool on Saturday. Interestingly, I learned that many people in our mixed Arab-Israeli neighborhood do not seem to observe Shabbat—not because they are not religious but because they are not religiously Jewish. I fell asleep Friday night to the strains of Middle Eastern club music floating up from the street six floors below as a Palestinian dance party unfolded around the women in wigs and men in black hats who were walking home from Shabbat dinners. This is an entirely new experience in integration for me, nothing like what I've known in the States, and it's awesome. Shavua tov kulam, a good new week to everyone from here in East Jerusalem.

The Shuk

This morning I awoke early, my head totally stuffed up with a late-summer cold yet my spirit still determined to have an adventure. Last night I asked Eyal, one of the two Jerusalemites (a new word I just made up) I know, to come with me to the shuk--the open-air market near the city center--today for a little pre-Shabbat grocery shopping. I was envisioning a flowy skirt-over-pants Israeli style outfit, a is-she-religious-or-just-stylish? headscarf, a strong espresso and a trip downtown on the back of his motorbike to start my day but disappointingly, he called shortly after I got out of bed to tell me he was not coming with me after all.

Determined to escape our far-flung French Hill neighborhood and undaunted by the fact that as he always claims but never seems to do, Eyal is supposedly working on his graduate-school research, I put on a more sensible outfit and went outside to wait for the bus. Half an hour later I found myself on the midrehov, the main pedestrian mall downtown, walking through the Friday morning throngs on their way as I was to buy provisions for Shabbat.

I had forgotten that no matter what the weather is in the rest of the world, it is always 120 degrees inside the shuk and was quickly reminded as sweat began to roll down my back. Fully, shamefully aware that the vocabulary of Hebrew numbers and counting still eludes me, I shoved aside my derogatory self-perception as a Stupid American and took advantage of what I've always been quite surprised to be the honesty of the vendors when it comes to payment. At each stall I selected my vegetables and held them out to be weighed along with a palmful of coins from which the sellers one by one chose the correct amount, leaving me with lots of change and a renewed sense of faith in humanity since they could easily have taken advantage of the fact that I don't know the difference between hameshisrei and hameshim.

Half an hour and more than a kilo of pastries for Marzipan--among many other, healthier things--later I made a quick stop at Gazith to see if there were any cute Israeli shoes I couldn't live without before boarding the bus back to HaGiva Tsarfatit, French Hill. A quick run across the street to Mister Cheap, the supermarket, rounded out our supplies for the next few days and now I am ready to take a midday rest in preparation for Shabbat.

There Are Many Opinions

...about the state of Israel, about the Palestinian people, about U.S. involvement in the Middle East. In response to my Ani Po b'Yerushalayim post someone who elected to remain anonymous submitted a comment, which I did not publish, criticizing my right as an American to come live in Jerusalem. They voiced particular disapproval of my residence in East Jerusalem, an area relatively close to Arab villages and Palestinian settlements (Grandma--don't get nervous--it's fine).

It is true that the absence of peace, that the lack of equality in terms of human rights, is a problem not just in Jerusalem but throughout Israel, and of course by extension throughout the Middle East and even around the world. I recognize that when I wait for the bus outside my apartment building and the green-and-white Palestinian bus drives by, taking its passengers somewhere far different than the places I might be going. I am aware of that when I walk back from the market and find a white Land Rover idling in the street outside my house, the large black letters UN emblazoned across both sides. I know I have privileges here that others do not, I am cognizant of the fact that the amount of money in my bank account right now to finance this year's journey, while meager in comparison to my standard of living the past few years in San Francisco and a constant source of worry for me, is greater than a year's salary for many people who live in my diverse East Jerusalem neighborhood.

All this is true, and yet living in Jerusalem is still a choice I freely make for myself right now--not as a political statement, although others would consider it one. Everyone is free to have their opinions and to share them, to inquire of others about their possibly differing points of view and ask questions to clarify or make statements to respectfully disagree. I myself do everything I can not to make assumptions about other people's choices: professional, personal, relational, financial, political, spiritual or beyond. To the commenter who made the assumption that I have chosen to come to Israel in celebration of my American privilege and in disrespect of those whose history is here and whose rights are more limited than mine, I encourage you to hold your own opinions and allow others to hold theirs. Replying to my post with an assertive comment that leaves no room for dialogue does not give you the opportunity to learn from me and the personal choice I have made to live here, and at the same time does not give me the opportunity to learn from you either.

Mark and Rebecca's Wedding

I spent a week in New Hampshire for Mark and Rebecca's wedding and I have not had time to write about it yet but want to say that once Shabbat is over and my combo platter jet lag/head cold have passed, I will show (with the help of Rebecca Melsky's outstanding photographs) and tell all about it because it was the most amazing wedding I have ever attended in my entire life.

Ani Po B'Yerushalayim, I Am Here In Jerusalem

It took the requisite 24 hours of travel, slightly shorter than when coming all the way from the west coast as I have always done before--from San Francisco to the City of Gold can take almost 40 hours with connecting flights and etc.--but now I am here. This afternoon my British Airways flight landed at Ben Gurion Airport and after passport control, baggage claim, customs, and recharging my Pelephone I got in a sherut (airport shuttle) and came here to the apartment I will share until November. I was greeted by my roommate Tal, fed a delicious dinner by Debby while she super-mommed it up and also packed the kids' bedtime stuff and got herself ready for school tonight all at the same time, and invited by Edan who shares my birthday and is about two feet taller than when I saw him last to come watch a movie at Saba and Safta's. So very sweet...

Knowing I would have an address, a home, and a family to come to after having come all this way is the one thing that has made the first step of this Middle Eastern part of my journey possible. As Debby and I stood on the roof watching the skies darken over East Jerusalem and the sun set over the Judean Hills I could smell the richness of the ground from six stories up and know that no matter what happens coming here now was the right thing to do.

Now I will shower and sleep, tomorrow I will write more but tonight I wish you lailah tov v'cholomat paz, good night and golden dreams from Jerusalem.

Leaving Berkeley

Tonight Mark and I get on a plane to Boston. Right now we are both packing, him for his wedding and me for my adventure. Last week I made Rebecca and Pierre sit on my bed surrounded by a massive pile of all the clothes I have here with me at their house and we sorted through it all, selecting the items from my wardrobe that I will wear between now and May. All the lucky winners are rolled and layered into the REI backpack I bought when Jim and I went to Europe five summers ago, all my toiletries and shoes and coats and books are in the big red suitcase I first took to New Zealand in 2000. My two carry-ons are the slender new orange rock-climbing backpack I bought at Sports Basement before leaving for camp in June and my signature green Timbuk2 messenger bag.

I have had my shots, paid my bills, said my farewells, and I am leaving Berkeley tonight. Between now and when I return birthdays and holidays will pass, seasons will change, friendships will grow…or, fade. The longest I have been away before now is five weeks, from June to August 2006. That seems like no time at all compared to the days weeks and months that lie ahead. The paper copies of my travel documents came in the mail a few days ago and somehow seeing the date of my return printed in black on white was much more real than seeing it in my email on a laptop screen.

May 12, 2008: that is when I am coming back to San Francisco.

Fondness and Fighting: Saying My Farewells

In addition to preparing my bags and my travel documents for this journey I have spent significant time preparing my heart. It is hard to bid farewell to the life I've known for so long, even when parts of it have come to be so challenging to me.

Within the past day I feel I've experienced two completely opposite ends of the emotional spectrum as far as saying goodbye are concerned. Last night I had a wonderful, remarkable evening with an amazing woman who is one of my imaginary Charlie's Angels. We had dinner and sangria at an authentic, pink-walled taqueria and then talked for what felt like hours, walking up and down the darkening streets of Berkeley and finally finishing our conversation in what has come to be our favorite place to really hash out matters of life and love: her Subaru. The tzedakah she gave me tight in my palm, the compass I long ago gave her returned to it's rightful owner after I'd had it on loan in Yosemite all summer, I waved goodbye to her across the street and climbed into Rebecca's Volvo, making my way home. It was bitter to hug her for what will be the last time in awhile but it was so very sweet to see her and know that our friendship will remain strong.

In stark contrast to last night, I received a very challenging email tonight from a woman with whom I used to be quite close but to whom I've become significantly less connected over time, to the point of not being connected at all anymore. It was an awful thing to read the night before going away for so long and in my response I spared no honesty in telling her so. I have not heard from her since and do not expect to hear from her anytime soon, if ever again. I do not regret my words to her and know that silence between us will be best in the end, but is still a difficult way to leave matters between two people.

Some things are easier to say goodbye to than others.