Next Year in Jerusalem

When you walk outside in my neighborhood, you can tell that there is a holiday coming; not because of the snow on the ground or the many versions of Silent Night playing on repeat in the malls. It isn't because of the glittery Santas hanging from lamp posts or the white lights draped on anything that will stand still. There are decorations, but they are subtle--menorahs line the street lamps and jelly doughnuts line the windows of storefronts, but the houses are decorated with nothing more than the usual orange trees. Songs hailing Judah Maccabee are lacking from the radio, but it is clear: Hanukkah is here.

Kids don't have school next week and there was even a talent show in my Ulpan this week, replete with juice and jelly doughnuts. (Ulpan is an intensive Hebrew school that draw Jews and non-Jews alike from every corner of the earth). No drunken holiday parties where you mistakenly kiss your co-worker and no secret Santa gift swaps. Honestly, the biggest difference between Hanukkah in the US and Hanukkah in Israel is the lack of Christmas. Christmas of course still takes place here. Moreover, it is celebrated in the spots that matter, Bethlehem and Nazareth to name a few, but both holidays are celebrated out of respect for their roots...and the jelly doughnuts.

Growing up in Northern Virginia, my brother and I were the only Jews in our elementary school. When Hanukkah came around, we felt pretty left out. It's not like we were watching all the non-Jews and their candy canes from afar, but Christmas pretty much overwhelmed the senses from October through January and left my brother and I wondering why Judah and Christ weren't on the same level. My mom made an appearance in our school every year around the middle of December. She brought plastic dreidels, jelly doughnuts and gelt. She taught our classes how to play "dreidel" and each year showed us how to make hannukiot from celery, peanut butter and pretzels. She gave Hanukkah a good name.

As the years went by, more and more Hanukkah songs made it into the winter assemblies and as my brother and I got older, we gained more allies in the Hanukkah department. It was a big year in our house when we bought an electric menorah to put in our window. We lived in a neighborhood of non-Jews and many were not terribly pleased that we were there. The electronic menorah was my parents' version of public Judaism.

So, back to Israel. Hanukkah is not Christmas--not in the United States and not in Israel. Hanukkah celebrates the amazing miracle of oil lasting for eight days. It's a great excuse for Israelis to eat foods laden in oil and spend more time than usual with their families, but life basically proceeds as normal. When looked at side by side, the Hanukkah miracle in no way compares with leading the Jews out of Egypt and through the desert to reach the Promised Land. The latter equals no school AND no work.

Despite having to work, Israelis do have some fun with Hanukkah. Jelly doughnuts and latkes are everywhere but it is the bakeries that are the real show. Smells of everything from dulce de leche to hot chocolate to the traditional jam filled sufganiot invade your nose, and all will folds in the face of frosted goodness. There is no doubt--Israelis pride themselves in their doughnuts. Some people take trips, some revel in knowing that latkes can suffice as dinner for eight nights in a row. Most gather for dinners and lighting the menorah. Our family isn't giving gifts this year, thankful instead for health, happiness and love.

Next year in Jerusalem. Oh wait, wrong holiday.

Pimp Your Meal

With eighty degree days and no sign of chill in sight, Thanksgiving seemed a far-off option in a country that is more familiar with religious Pilgrims than the sort that settled New England. But left to some homesick Americans with a penchant for good wine, the holiday can turn into much more than the one celebrated in the good ole US of A--the one preceded by a large parade and capped off with black Friday.

Twelve Americans and one Israeli gathered in a lovely apartment in Jerusalem as the weekend began in the holy land. Two poets, four rabbis in waiting, a computer engineer, a photographer, a teacher and a few visitors began the evening, not with the carving of a bird or the giving of thanks, but with the popping of some bubbly. The notion of this meal was not to follow the dictates of tradition but rather to create something new: five courses, each paired with a specific wine, and lemon sorbet to cleanse our palettes in between.

The first course, appetizers enjoyed before setting down at the table, included veggie antipasto and veggie chopped liver. They were accompanied by a bottle of Cava and a bottle of Brut. These were my favorite wines--cold, sparkling, the perfect start to a fascinating meal.

Everyone found their seat, finished off their Cava and moved onto the second course. In an effort to not leave tradition completely in the dark, one of the guests prepared a honey sage cornbread--in my opinion, a modern American classic. Sweet, savory, amazing. This was served with a carrot soufflé--the recipe of a guest's aunt and the perfect retake on the sweet potato marshmellow combination that often graces Thanksgiving tables. As we were now seated at the table, the cries of "Pimp your dish" began--a chorus that followed us through the night and necessitated that the cook give the origins and secrets of his or her recipe. This course was served with Chenin Blanc.

Before moving on to course three, we were served lemon sorbet to make sure our palates were clean and prepared to best enjoy what came next. The third course included a stuffing recipe out of Long Island and a gourmet macaroni and cheese. The mac and cheese truly shamed Kraft--big shells covered in mozzarella, cheddar, and gruyere with tomato slices for color. Sauvignon Blanc, a few rounds of Johnny Appleseed, more sorbet and on to course four.

The fourth course was the real meat of the meal, minus the meat. Salmon done in a cumin rub, sour cream mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli and homemade cranberry sauce. Any other night, this would be the entire meal. On this Thanksgiving, this and some Tempranillo equaled just the fourth course.

With all of the savory food dispensed, we moved on to the best and most important course--dessert. Pumpkin cheesecake bars, chocolate pecan pie, pumpkin pie, dark chocolate truffles and Malbec to boot.

I walked in knowing only the hosts and two other people. I walked out with a handful of new friends, a full belly and real inspiration--this was not a Thanksgiving without thought or hope. This group of temporary expats really redefined the notion of Thanksgiving for me; each course was given its time, its wine and its appreciation. There were true thanks given at this meal--for the food in front of us, for friends new and old, and for the ability to celebrate the holiday despite our proximity to New England.

Holy Land or Professional Purgatory?

Today at work, someone peed their pants. No, I am not being idiomatic - nor am I am being funny. I work somewhere where someone literally peed their pants. This would have been quite a tale to tell had it been at my last job, a large non-profit in Washington, D.C. As I am currently living a few bus stops north of Tel Aviv, I no longer work there. I now work with mostly 7 year olds, teaching them English for 3 hours after their school day ends. In many ways, this could be an important, even effective job. Some days it probably is, but most days it feels more like glamorized babysitting. Peeing your pants barely makes the headlines.

I use this example not as a vehicle to complain about life or rue my choices (Masters in Near Eastern and Judaic Studies?) or lack of Hebrew (really, even with the masters?). Instead, I wish to examine the life of the immigrant, or in my case, the pseudo-immigrant biding her time on a tourist visa. In a nutshell, I am qualified for nothing. I am not a nurse, nail artist, carpenter, or one of the other very popular categories of job possibilities. I, as many of my friends, have woven a complicated web of education, jobs and even publications that qualify for nothing outright when plucked from an English speaking work world and dropped on the corner of chutzpah and hummus.

I have been lucky in my three weeks in Israel. I have found gainful employment, I have found a magazine who will pay me to write (in English!!), and I have the ever-attractive lure of Hebrew classes three mornings a week to get me out of bed. All in all, it is enough to keep me busy and even make enough money to pay for those Hebrew classes and the bus to get there and back. I am lucky. English is my first and best language and it will carry me the world 'round - if I am willing to take whatever job I can get.

This is the source of my frustration. I am willing to take whatever job I can get as I know that without Hebrew, my choices are limited. I am frustrated that I can't have the jobs I want. I want to work at a nonprofit and spend the daylight hours dreaming of how I can help hungry people eat and homeless people find homes. There are many things I love--writing, traveling, teaching--but mostly I love to know that I am making a difference in someone else's life, no matter how small. I am frustrated that without Hebrew that passion of mine is stifled.

I will find a way to express it. I will look harder, I will volunteer, I will network. You always hear about engineers and doctors who come to the US and drive cabs because their qualifications no longer exist once they are an American citizen. Where do they find their meaning? Is it enough to put dinner on the table and some money in savings? How hard do you fight to do what you love even when there is no job title for it? I know the answers are not simple so I will keep searching. In the meantime, I am hoping my students learn to raise their hands when number one is imminent.

Citizens of the Same Family

It finally makes sense. After months of traveling in the East with an Israeli and being witness to the very low social boundaries Israelis have with one another, it finally makes sense.

No matter where they are or whether they know each other, Israelis greet one another as old friends and break into full conversation within minutes about whatever is relevant. If we happened to be in Vietnam, the conversation would be about which guest house was the best and least expensive. If we were in Australia, perhaps advice would be dispensed about which caravan park had the nicest kitchen or which company offered the best dives. As an American in these dialogues, I smiled, tried to understand the conversation and then usually zoned out. I was always aware, though, that Israelis claim ownership to something English speakers and people from most other languages do not; because Hebrew is spoken by so few in the world, when you happen upon a Hebrew speaker outside of Israel, brotherhood is immediate and unquestioning.

On a particularly hot day in November in Cairns (northeastern Australia), Oded and I decided to check out the public lagoon in the center of the city. Upon arriving in Cairns, we couldn't help but notice the lagoon, a large swimming pool type arrangement adjacent to the shore. It was open to the public and free, a perfect way for two poor travelers to waste the day. We made our way from the sandy concrete to the center of the lagoon, only waist deep in water. We swam, relaxed, floated, and inevitably heard Hebrew. Oded swam closer and with nothing more than an, "Alan, ma koreh?" we had a new friend and were cooking dinner and drinking beers in Uzi's guest house hours later. We spent a few days with Uzi and his friends before moving on north and west. More than a month later, we walked into a backpacker in Sydney, and there sat Uzi. The reunion was that of old friends, replete with hugs, kisses and stories of where we had all been the last weeks. If Oded and Uzi were replaced in this scenario with two Americans, say Mark and Greg, this meeting would look very different or not at all. They would most likely never approach each other, and for good reasons. First, most Americans never take a trip like this and therefore would never even be in this situation. Next, English is not a rare commodity and does not serve to connect its speakers. Most importantly and the reason for this examination, is why Americans, and I venture most other nationalities, do not create the same connections as Israelis.

The answer to my question arrived on my ninth trip to Israel, a trip that less resembles a vacation and more a permanent residence. After a six month reprieve in Boston, I am once again gone from the US and have moved up and on from my backpack to a lovely apartment in Ramat HaSharon. We now live in Oded's family's apartment, to be exact, and one that I am now to think of as my own. It is this apartment and its surrounding area that answered my question for me. Oded's family lives in a two level apartment with four bedrooms, two and a half baths and a considerable amount of common space. The street is lined with buildings just like this one that house apartments of roughly the same size. Oded has spent his entire life in a similarly sized space in this exact neighborhood. The streets are lined with parks, cafes and an absurd amount of hair salons. Due to the almost always warm weather, windows are open to the street in an omnipresent theater of life. Everything from fights and family meals to television and love making are part of the daily sounds of the street. Not only can you hear, but often you can see as well. The apartments are in every way equipped for life, but I imagine they seem small after a while. The natural outgrowth of not enough privacy is a cafe culture, a place where the dramas of life are again played out in the street.

In America, or at least in my America and not that of the Lower East Side in the early twentieth century, a significant amount of Americans live in homes that are not connected to other buildings. These homes are built to keep noise, heat, and family secrets in, rather than hanging them out with the wash. For better or worse, these homes produced Americans who are quiet, reserved and keep to themselves. At least until they break free from suburban American and move into their freshmen dorm or their first apartment building and their concepts of privacy and decency are blown. But as these episodes of communal living do not last forever, and many find their way back out to the land of cul de sacs and lawn mowers, Americans maintain on some level their ability to disengage from daily interactions and the closeness created in the warm apartments and open cafes of Tel Aviv.

In conclusion, and after many months of watching my beloved greet strangers on foreign avenues around the world as if they were long lost friends, I finally understand perhaps one of the reasons that Israelis are why they are the way they are. Put aside all of the politics, the religion, the neighbors and think instead on the proximity of apartments, the climate and the ensuing culture and you find a people who are less like citizens of a nation and more like an extended family.

Translating Jewish

I am completely fortunate that my whole life my parents encouraged me to marry for love. Not money, not religion, not security. Simply love. As a product of a middle class, Jewish household, it is mildly surprising that I received little to no pressure to marry for love AND Judaism. There may have been a small threat that if I married a Jew, I would inherit my great-grandmothers candlesticks (heavy, silver, carried on her person from Poland) and if I don't marry a Jew, I would be hit over the head with them. A small threat that was not repeated often over the years, especially after I fell in love with an amazing Jewish man, a man that I found without the aid of Jdate, blind dates, speed dates or any other system other than pure good fortune. So when the seemingly impossible happened, both families were ecstatic, and mine breathed a sigh of relief that the candlesticks would not have to be used as a weapon. But before the happily ever after could begin, first the wedding needed to be planned. And by wedding, I mean weddings. See, this most amazing man is not just Jewish, but Israeli. Enter the main character in this story: conflict. Not conflict between my husband and I or our families per say but between our cultures. Jewish translates in many ways from state to state and even across oceans but when it comes to wedding planning, Jewish is a whole other story. Thus begins the saga of wedding number one.

The American wedding. A celebration of values, tradition, love and of course an open bar. With my fiance across an ocean somewhere due north of Tel Aviv, the initial planning was left to me...and my mother. There were many things easily pinned down: save the dates--designed using a mac and sent electronically, sent 4 months before the wedding day; the venue--a platinum LEED certified non-profit that educates high school students in art; the music--dj, no line dances, minimal slow songs; the food--locally raised, vegetarian grub minus grilled salmon; no wedding party--less muss, less fuss; rabbi--friend of mine from LA, woman, awesome. But somewhere between harpists and breaking the glass lay the rub. Not only do Israelis plan weddings in roughly three days, they have much less to worry about--no flights (usually), no hotels, and no welcome bags at the hotel or information sheet for the weekend long festivities because Israel is a celebrate and sleep at home kind of country. I have also excluded all the pre-wedding goodness from registries, wedding showers to bachelorette parties. Try explaining over skype to your mother-in-law to be that you sign up for things you want people to buy you and then they buy them and then you kill trees to thank them. The whole process of wedding planning is full of long standing traditions and rules that sometimes offer wisdom and logic and other times offer complication in multiple shades of taffeta. It is also something that we successfully navigated in just four short months here in the US.

With all of the party planned and my fiance actually in Boston, we had time to concentrate on what is arguably the most important part of the day--the ceremony. Since we already had the rabbi, one big thing was accomplished. The challenge here comes back to an earlier note--this is wedding number one and wedding number two will take place in Israel. This means looking into a ton of halacha (Jewish law) in order to make sure we can legally marry each other twice. This is much more simple and more complex than one would intuit. The most important thing to both my fiance and to me is to celebrate this great event with all of those we love, not just throw a party one place and do the pomp and circumstance in another. In order to do that in Israel and be married religiously and not civilly (by a rabbi and not town hall) we needed to make sure that we did NOT have two male witnesses sign our ketubah (wedding agreement). This means that the whole process of the rabbi, the vows, the seven blessings...none of it matters or makes anything legal until two men have signed a document saying that they witnessed the wedding. Problem solved. Our ketubah was signed during the ceremony by four close friends: three women, one man. And we will do it all again in Israel, where two men will sign our ketubah so our wedding will be legally recognized as Jewish in Israel. I have significant questions that border on complaints regarding the marriage process in Israel but I will save that for another time.

The ceremony at our request was very accessible to people of all backgrounds. Our guests were a mix of ethnic and religious backgrounds and to ensure that everyone felt engaged and in the know, we not only wrote out a step by step program including questions like, "What is a Huppah and Who's Under It?" but we made sure that the rabbi introduced and explained each piece of the ceremony, in Hebrew and English. This whole process was again new to my fiance and his family. Weddings in Israel are generally all in Hebrew and thus require no translation or explanation. We had to question each individual piece to make sure we felt comfortable with it, for example the bride circling the groom after she finishes her trip down the aisle was new to my fiance. He wanted to know why it happens and what the history of it was. This was before I told him I wanted more liberal take on the whole woman circles man thing. This is somewhat what I meant by Jewish not translating across cultures. Another example includes the name stamped satin kippah that we all know all too well for them bar/bat mitzvah circuit. My mother, as any good Jewish mother would, went right out and ordered a large amount of satin kippot for our celebration. Another something that doesn't happen in Israel because who doesn't just have their own?

After all of the conversation, editing, and translating the American wedding was amazing and full of Jewish tradition, non-stop dancing, great food and genuinely happy people. And my biggest recommendation to any bride, no matter country or culture: Croc High Heels.

This blog was also published on jewcy.com!

Homecoming

Instead of flying straight home to Boston, I made an excellent decision (if I do say so myself) to stop in Los Angeles first for two weeks. My friend Kim met me at the airport with a balloon, an American flag, trail mix and a bottle of wine--what else does one need upon arrival to the US? I spent my first days seeing friends--Kim, Carrie, Amy Y., Mara--and then Passover started and I got to see even more friends--Amy B., Rebecca, Brad--while enjoying matzah ball soup and a retelling of how the Jews got out of Egypt before properly baking their bread. All was good--did some hiking, went to a yoga class, and spent a night in Hollywood with all of Mara's folk, but then everything changed on Saturday night.

Mara and I headed to the Santa Monica to meet up with all the west siders. We picked up Carrie, Kim and crew and headed to the meeting place, a spot called Wokcano. We walked in and it strikes the customer as a restaurant kind of place and I was like, really, we're gonna sit at a table all night? But as you walk through, the restaurant turns into a big outdoor space with a gorgeous loft like balcony. I follow Carrie up the stairs and hear "Surprise!!" Awesome. The first face I see is my friend Fef (Rebecca). She was one of my closest friends in LA and had recently moved to Austin and happened to be in LA that weekend. All was right in the world. There were so many amazing faces from all of Amy Y.'s friends to friends from high school to the girls who planned it (thanks Amy and Mara!!).

Right after I make my way around the room and say hello to everyone, I see my godmother Shelley reach the top of the stairs and I am in disbelief. She lives an hour out of LA and I had already planned to stay with her a day later but it shows how well my friends know me that they invited her. Well, Shelley is my godmother because she is my mom's best friend so literally 5 seconds later my mom walks in...and I lose it. She flew cross country the day before after finding out about the party. It is too good to be true. I haven't seen my friends and family in so long and this was such an amazing gathering. Well, I burst into tears and so does my mom and Mara and Amy and Kim...but we recover, order wine and have a truly amazing night.

My friends put in such a great effort--planning, showing up, keeping it a secret--but it was really the best to see the plotters get surprised! The night ended with me, Mara and Kim eating matzah pizza--not too shabby.

The rest of my time in LA has continued to keep me on my toes--I spent time with my mom, Shelley and her family, Amy and her friends and Kim and I are headed to Santa Barbara for a day of wine before I head back to Boston for the summer.

Now I am just missing my men...Jason, Oded and my Dad. A girl can dream!

My Best Dive Ever

Before leaving Coral View, Oded and I decided to go diving one more time. We knew the dive masters from having dove there before and knew that they only took us to the best sites. They walked up to us at breakfast and asked if we were in the mood to go diving that morning--we were. Based on conditions that day, they took us to the Blue Lagoon--think Brooke Shields in 1979 and every over the top vacation brochure you have ever seen--see through blue water, white sand beaches, remote islands. This is the Blue Lagoon. We boated over there, put on our gear, tipped over backwards and descended to the white sand below.

Almost immediately, the dive masters asked us to kneel on the sand. They opened a bag of "fish food" and schools of gorgeous fish came swimming our way, surrounding us in color. As this is happening, I see Oded writing on the dive master's underwater pad. I was immediately concerned that something was wrong with his equipment but he turned to me so I could see what he had written. The pad read, "Will you marry me?" I was so surprised but shook my head yes as best I could. In Oded's words, "She smiled, closed her eyes, slapped me on my mask a few times, smiled again, let a few bubbles come out of her mouth, and kissed me underwater. I chose to take it as a yes."

Then we dove for another forty minutes, saw amazing fish and surfaced with big smiles on our face. No dive will ever top this one...

Bula!

After two months of trekking, sky diving and more rain than imaginable, we left New Zealand more than ready for two weeks on the beach. We arrived in Fiji right in time for sunset and a fire show at our hotel. After an hour of ten Fijians tossing, eating, and swirling fire sticks, we immediately felt the difference between being in a Western culture and being in Fiji. We spent one night on the mainland before jumping on a boat and beginning two weeks of island hopping.

The first place we stayed, Bay of Plenty, was like Lost with some huts. The people were so nice, standing knee deep in the ocean playing us a welcome song on their guitars as we arrived. They taught us how to open a coconut, net fish, and dance like Fijians and served amazing homemade food. Our room was perched on the top of a hill overlooking the ocean and provided an amazing view for sunrise. We stayed only one night and headed to Coral View, a more populated island.

Our first morning at Coral View we headed out with the dive masters on a shark feeding dive. We took a boat twenty five minutes away from all land and dove 18 meters down in the middle of the ocean. Once we were all assembled and holding onto a rope, one of the dive masters opened a trash can of dead fish and at once hordes of fish came and feasted on the impromptu meal, and one by one reef sharks would swim by and take their pick.

Then, all of a sudden, you see all the small fish swim away and in comes a sickle cell lemon shark--more than 4 meters in length and fierce. It was like watching the Discovery Channel in front of your face. The shark came in, cleaned up, whipped its body as it swam through and disappeared again. We saw two of those sharks during the dive and eleven other sharks total.

We left Coral View after 4 days because we wanted to see other islands. We spent a rainy night one an island misnamed White Sandy Beach before moving on to Manta Ray Island, a supposedly high end backpacker resort. We were not terribly impressed and headed back to Coral View for our last few nights, with our new friends Colleen and Colin in tow. The staff, food and accommodation at Coral View was awesome--the staff were constantly singing, everyone knew our name and there was 24 hour power--a big deal on the islands! But this was not what would ultimately be what I remember about Coral View...

New Zealand in Review...kind of

New Zealand is renowned for its nature, its laid back lifestyle and its warm people but when you get past Lord of the Rings, most people find New Zealand to be stuck 20 years in the past, in a charming sort of way. One traveler in a guide book remarked, "When I got to New Zealand, I thought it was closed." This is not far from the truth and I think Kiwis rather prefer it this way--a kind of self and state preservation. But there are some things that we have encountered that support the notion of New Zealand being 20 or even 40 years behind.

Glaciers are popular here--one may even say they are New Zealand's "thing", along with fiords, sounds, beaches and forest. So we set out on a famous and much recommended walk to view a glacier, but the walk starts down 30 kilometers of unpaved road where we needed to cross three bodies of unbridged water. Seriously? Pave your roads!

Driving on the North Island, we noticed a sign for a toll road. In the US, this would necessitate a toll booth where you either interact with a living human being or where the fee is electronically charged to a pass each time you enter the road. In New Zealand, the options are 1) prepay the toll online 2) call and pay for the toll within 3 days 3) pull off the road and pay at a machine where traffic officials assist you in the somewhat complicated system. The bugger is that you never enter the toll road--it just is. What?!!

New Zealand is definitely home to the most dramatic scenery I have ever encountered but I have a few suggestions: street lights, two way bridges, and street signs, just to name a few. After tramping uphill for hundreds of kilometers, waiting for the non-stop rain to abate, and surviving the unpaved roads, Oded and I are more than ready for Fiji!

Hot Water Beach

All the photos of people on holiday in New Zealand show smiling faces amidst the sand and surf, and seeing as the North Island has actual glimpses of a much missed sun, we headed to Coromandel, a peninsula in the northeast. Full of beautiful bays where the forest meets the beach and awe-inspiring sandstone structures stand solo in the sea, Coromandel is as lovely as it is rumored to be, but its real wonder is not enjoyable during most of the daylight hours. On either side of low tide, which for us was at 6:50 PM, at one beach in one small area, a natural hot spring exists under the sand. Aptly named, Hot Water Beach draws hundreds of people each day at low tide, With spades in hand, groups of people dig out natural hot water pools. As you approach the area, the sand warms your feet with each step until you slowly feel your foot burn and you know you are there--the water gets as hot as 149 degrees Celsius. We learned quickly to dig deep, fortify the walls of our little pool with dry sand, and then just sit and relax. The tide crawled up and over every now and then but the springs were so hot, the cold water was welcome. All in all, good free fun.

Don't Tell My Mom*

In the New Zealand tradition of waiting, Oded and I arrived in Taupo (the center of the North Island) with a long list of things to do and instead of actually doing them, we waited. We waited for the wind to lessen, the clouds to clear, the rain to end, because as we have learned, nothing is worth doing in New Zealand if the weather is not perfect.

First on our list was bungy jumping--my first time and Oded's fourth. Set on the side of a gorgeous rock walled blue-green river, the jumping deck stood 47 meters over the water. After watching a few people get harnessed in and jump, we got in line. As it was my first time, I dove the regular way--arms over my head, head first. I stepped to the edge, looked down, cleared my mind, and opened my eyes. A truly fun feeling of plunging downwards but short lived as the bungy did its job and yanked me back up. Oded, a bungy veteran, having done the third highest bungy in the world (168 meters in Nepal), jumped backwards, the accepted scariest way to do it. On a count of three, he threw himself backwards and plummeted feet first before gravity flipped him over and he fully submerged in the water head first--an awesome sight.

Next on the list--skydiving. Thankfully the wind was too strong for our first dive time because the morning we actually jumped was cloudless and blue skied--a perfect day. The process is quick--get weighed, get geared up, watch a two minute DVD on what to do and you're in the air with a stranger strapped to your back, at the edge of an airplane door. Again, I cleared my mind but whereas I had to decide to jump at the bungy, my tandem master just rocked me out of the plane and I was rushing toward the ground in a 60 second free fall. With views of Mt. Tongariro, Lake Taupo, and both the east and west coast of the North Island, it was unbelievable. It is an experience without comparison and serious fun. After about a minute, Albert opened the parachute and I went from a rush of wind in my ears to the most complete silence I have ever known. From there we spun and floated our way back to base, taking in the views and the absurdly surreal sense of flying. Oded jumped 30 seconds after me and loved it just as much.

All of these high flying adventures were just stall techniques as we waited for the track to be opened on the Tongariro Crossing, a trek hailed as New Zealand's best day walk. Usually hype oversells things but the Crossing is definitely the best walk I have done in New Zealand. It took us just over 6 hours to walk the 20 kilometers but the track was well built and full of beautiful scenery--volcanic craters of all colors, fresh snow on the mountain tops and emerald lakes with clouds of sulphur rising in the distance. (For followers of Lord of the Rings, this is Mt. Doom.) The walk provided great views at all times, but I have to say that I am not too sad to be done trekking in New Zealand!

*Of course my mom already knows! She was the first one we called after jumping...Doesn't mean she's happy though...:)

Richmond, Not Just the Capitol of Virginia

Having survived our trek in the cloud, Lina and Gil headed south while Oded and I headed north. By chance we stopped for the night in Richmond, a town of no note to backpackers and kiwis alike. We arrived around seven and headed straight to a little festival in town someone told us about. Local wineries and breweries lined the streets serving tastes, glasses and bottles. Tables were packed with locals, young and old, consuming baked potatoes, crepes, and "American" hot dogs. Little boys walked barefoot eating shaved ice, dyed red, blue and orange. A band played in the background, an audience to the show the locals put on. They sang everything from Aretha to Pink to Sweet Home Alabama and after the wine took hold, everyone was on their feet, dancing. Teenage girls in short shorts danced in groups, their bra straps showing for effect. A mother swayed to the music with her son in her arms. Couples with white hair danced dances that have names that I should know (waltz?) and of course a quartet of Israeli boys jumped around, all curly hair and cigarettes. The sun set, at first lighting the sky in shades of purple and orange, but after time faded to soft pinks, blues and some purple still. The music lasted for hours and the crowd only sang louder and danced harder and when it was time to go home, couples strolled hand in hand while the neighborhood kids chased each other with cups of water, the slow at a disadvantage. A small town at its best.

Trek to the End of the World

After some rest and much stretching, Oded and I attempted our second and third multi-day treks. The second, the Routeburn, was a kinder gradient, and full of breathtaking scenery. We tramped 17 kilometers the first day through mountains, lakes, and saw past snow capped peaks all the way to the west coast of the south island. We also acquired two new friends, an Israeli couple on a two month honeymoon, with whom we traveled from the trek to Wanaka and onto the glaciers. We loved this trek for the views, the company and the track.

From the Routeburn, we headed to Angelus Hut in Nelson Lakes, a tramp that almost all the Israelis we've met recommend as one of the most beautiful treks in the whole island. A two day tramp mostly on the ridge, it is meant to be hard, but not as challenging as Kepler (our first trek). The tramp is a back country track and therefore the hut is less expensive, the track is less maintained and the fewer people crowd the path. With two of Oded's friends from Israel newly arrived in New Zealand, Lina & Gil, we headed to St. Arnaud. We began the morning after a rainy night and a dense cloud still remained. We figured the cloud would disappear as the day heated up. Wrong assumption. When the day is cloudy, do not trek in New Zealand. We climbed for a little over an hour, gaining close to 700 meters, and walked another 9 kilometers on the ridge ALL in a cloud--a cloud so thick we sometimes couldn't see the next pole or ten meters in front of us. In the beginning the track was dirt mixed with rocks but after 4 kilometers on the ridge, the track followed a steep path only accessed by climbing hand and foot over unsteady rocks. To top it off, it was both windy and rainy, making the rocks slippery and balance a necessity. It really felt like we were trekking to the end of the world--all white, blowing wind and rain, erupted mountainside and only a few other brave souls heading the opposite direction. Not as inspiring as I had hoped. After almost seven hours we reached our sleeping quarters, a hut set on a beautiful lake--yes, we could finally see!

We opted to walk the ridge back instead of the valley route we had intended to take, in the desperate hope that the day would be clear and we would finally see the views everyone raved about so enthusiastically. The next day was clearer and many hours faster--amazing how seeing in front of you speeds things up. The area was beautiful but I have come to the conclusion that I am either saturated with natural beauty or that when post-army Israelis say "beautiful" they actually mean "treacherous, blister-inducing and not all that different from every other lovely, flat view in New Zealand."

Face to Face

It is ever popular recently not just to speak of global warming and the environment but to also change your ways to help turn back the climate clock--going green, reducing our footprint. So we remember to shut off the lights, unplug the coffee, buy local produce, recycle, walk to work, all in an effort to keep the world's glaciers from receding to a state of nonexistence. These simple acts, if done en masse, could very well affect change, but this whole concept of glacial recession may be too abstract to truly inspire action. Having stood face to face with many glaciers in one week--Rob Roy, Fox & Franz Josef--I can say that it is way more motivating than any documentary.

As you drive up the road to view the glaciers, signs are posted as far as one kilometer out to show where the glacier reached in the 17 and 1800s. The glaciers themselves are beautiful, milky white turquoise ice, sculpted in jagged peaks, both reflecting and shaping the rocks that the ice once covered. But the glaciers have receded, and substantially--the glacial rivers are all rock bed and the ice changes everyday.Standing at the foot of these glaciers really inspires the feeling of witnessing a natural phenomenon, one that may sooner be history than present.

Australia does not live here

After surviving some of the hottest, sweatiest days of my life in Australia, I thought that New Zealand would be a relief, a chance to finally put my strategic layering system into use. Most days in NZ I am wearing some version of every piece of clothing that I brought on this 7 month journey--tank top, sweater, pants, dress, socks--you can only imagine how hip I look. So as we prepared for our first overnight tramping trip we realized that we needed even warmer, faster drying clothes and a good bit of gear that we didn't yet have. A few shopping trips later and we had new hats, gloves, thermals, a billy to boil water in, light weight mugs and food to last us three days--bread, nutella, muesli bars, rice, tea and hot cocoa. With all of this and our sleeping bags on our backs, we were each walking with 10-12 kilos on our backs.

We chose the Kepler track, a 50K trek in Fiordland in southwest New Zealand. The first day was 6 flat kilometers followed by a steady 8K uphill climb that brings you out of thee tree line to exposed ridge. We made it to the first hut in about four and a half hours, just as the rain started. By morning the weather had cleared and we had a perfect day in front of us which was key as the second day was chock full of views of mountains, fiords and gorgeous skies. By perfect weather I mean 3 degrees Celsius and 55 mph winds. At times I resembled a drunken sailor, weaving back and forth, often unable to stand or walk straight. We gained 1300 meters by the second day and saw some really sweeping alpine views from the track, a thin path cut into the rock with breathtakingly steep cliffs on one and sometimes both sides. I thought the wind and cold made the day hard but there are folks who brave the path with snow up to their knees. By the end of the second day we descended down 100 switch backs in the bush before reaching the second hut.

The third day should have been the easiest--a flat 22 kilometers back out to civilization. I learned quickly that flat has a different meaning in New Zealand--it also includes steep ascents and descents. Funny how English works differently in different places. It took us six hours of fast walking before we finally crossed the swing bridge that brought us back to the world where things other than feet count as transportation. The three days were full of beauty, nice folks and exhilarating climbs, but by the end each step hurt, all my muscles were sore and I was cursing not having stretched more along the way. Lessons for next time...

Porpoise Bay

Some Israelis that Oded met at Mt. Cook told us of a secluded bay at the very south of the south island where dolphins swim close to the shore. Not only had they seen them, but they swam with them. We checked into the camp in the late afternoon and immediately asked about the dolphin sighting possibility. The lady at reception casually pointed out the front door. I went out, stood on the edge of the cliff and immediately dolphins jumped out of the water, like a regular day at Sea World. I shouted for Oded and a few minutes later we were stripped down to our under things and running into the water.

Freeze frame for a second: this sounds amazing and fortunate but please consider that the day was sunless, the wind was whipping, and the water temperature was somewhere around 12 Celsius. OK, resume. Dolphins jumping and Oded and I doing our best to swim out over the huge waves to make it where the dolphins played. Once we got out to calmer waters, we lost the dolphins until one was five feet in front of me. And then there were five circling us and swimming with us. It was exhilarating and frightening, and amazing to see such truly beautiful creatures so close. We made it back to shore, fighting the waves, to hot showers and glasses of hot cocoa.

We also managed to see sea lions, seals and the rare yellow-eyed penguins throughout the day at different coastal spots. While I miss the constant presence of kangaroos, NZ has some great fauna of its own.

39 million sheep, 4 million people

First impressions of New Zealand: absolutely stunning scenery, lots of sheep. It seems off the bat that NZ will be less fun than Australia. OZ is rowdier, untamed, spontaneous. NZ is tidy, rule abiding and shuts down early. It makes sense, sort of, as these two islands are home to some of the most naturally beautiful places on earth--glaciers, lakes, and coasts galore. It looks like we have exchanged our beer mugs for tramping shoes...

We started in Christchurch, a quaint city with a great art museum, street markets and a nightlife and backpacker scene that we quickly figured out is rare outside of Queenstown. Our first task was picking up our new van--we moved out of Astro Boy and into Golden Tops, a name that gave no clue as to what the art would look like. Both sides of the van are covered in mushrooms, not the garden variety, but more reminiscent of the kind you would see in a store that sells black lights and smells of patchouli. The driver's side also boasts a youth who looks blissfully high...on life. I expected the back to say something about what a long, strange trip its been or something similar but instead it reads, "Bag girls are good girls that haven't been caught." Quite the non sequitur.

After leaving Christchurch in Golden Tops, we spent our first few days in the Banks Peninsula, a little knob just south of Christchurch. This first drive already proved NZ's reputation true--the turquoise bays in Lyttleton and Akaroa were surrounded by rugged volcanic masses but it was Lakes Tekapo and Pukaki that took the cake for the best scenery in the first few days. Milky turquoise lakes surrounded by dark green pines backlit by the Southern Alps--the color is so shocking it almost feels unnatural, like fairies and wizards are about to fly out of their hiding places. No wonder Lord of the Rings was filmed here. From the lakes we headed to Mt. Cook. At 3755 m, it is NZ's and Australasia's highest peak and means "cloud piercer" in Maori. The clouds cleared and hung low long enough for the peak to grace the Hooker Valley and its icy waters. We were also lucky enough to view the kea, the only arctic parrot.

After a few walks through the mountains, we headed to Omaru, a coastal town that produced sightings of penguins at dusk and then on to Shag Point to see the fur seals. The south island's second largest town, Dunedin, provided a welcome surprise in their free art gallery. Peter Stichbury's "Alumni", a collection of close to 40 works of acrylic on linen were shockingly stimulating. The visual effect was somewhere between animation and reality and the intention was to make a statement on the present culture of aesthetics, celebrity, and the concept of human canvases. It is the best modern collection I have seen in a very long time.

Australia in Review

Total time: 72 days

Kilometers traveled: 13,077

Wildlife spotted: Koalas, Kangaroos, Wallabies, Emus, Platypus, Echidna (like a porcupine), Sharks, Seals, Sea Turtles, Cassowaries, Penguins, Dingoes

Favorite National Parks: Grampians (Victoria), Blue Mountains (New South Wales), the Red Center (Kings Canyon, Uluru, the Olgas)

Favorite Thing about Aussies: Hospitality

Yummiest Food: Tim Tams

Best Backpacker Town: Cairns

Best Nightlife: Sydney

Favorite City: Melbourne

Best Drives: Great Ocean Road, the drive up to Cape Tribulation

Best Beaches: White Haven Beach (Whitsundays), Whisky Bay (Wilson's Prom)

Completing the Circle

Oded and I pulled up to the Old Sydney Holiday Inn early Saturday morning. My wonderful parents gave Oded and I a break from the backpacks and the van and booked us into the hotel as our Hanukkah gift (thank you!!). Well, we showed up and it was clear within minutes that we would be someone's nightmare. We had less than two hours to return Astro Boy (tear) and needed to unpack the van, right then and there in front of this lovely hotel. So, we did. Backpacks, gas cans, eskys, food, tent, sleeping bags, atlases--you name it, it was on the curb. Fortunately, the hotel was awesome and they had us checked in and our bags delivered by the time Astro Boy was back with his rightful owners.

Not only did we stay in a hotel, but we went out on the town. A good friend from home is engaged to a lovely girl in Sydney and happened to be in town for the week. Ian and Tamara showed up at our hotel room about ten on Saturday night with a dress and heels for me and a button down shirt for Oded. They proceeded to dress us and show us the hottest spots in town--bars, clubs, guest lists, we were there in style. It was totally surreal to be in these posh places after spending four months in crocks and shirt dresses, but it was great fun. Oded and I bowed at around 3 am, completely exhausted and exhilarated and proceeded to sleep off the night and the last few months the next day.

By Monday, we were back on track, visiting Darling Harbour and taking in the views. Tuesday we headed out to Bondi Beach, Sydney's most popular coastal spot. After seeing tons of beaches in the last few months, this one still impressed me--there is something to be said for having an amazing city with coastal options. We ended up running into all of Israel in Bondi, specifically two guys we met earlier, one in Cairns and the other in Victoria. The world is a small and amazing place. Oded flew to New Zealand Wednesday night after watching hours and hours of inauguration madness and I follow him in two days time.

The Way Back to Sydney

With less than a week to get back to Sydney, we made the most of our time. We left Melbourne and headed southeast. After about two hours, we reached Wilson's Promontory, the southern most point of Australia and a somewhat undercover wonder in OZ. No one had mentioned it to us until we got to Victoria, but once we heard about it, we didn't stop--it was on everyone's top 5 list of best national parks in the country. It is this spot of coast that Tasmania broke off of and therefore the ecology and wildlife is very similar.

Wombats were rumored to haunt the roads at night, and despite our stakeouts we never saw one alive. The coasts are pristine and the beaches are amazing. The water color never ceases to amaze me, but it was the rock formations that surrounded each bay that intensified the beauty of this spot. We only had one day at Wilson's Prom, but it is definitely a place to spend more time.

From the Prom we headed north to Canberra, Australia's Capital Territory. We toured the Parliament, visited the library, the largest in the country, and drove through the town with its streets name for every state in the country. After just an afternoon in the small capital, we headed north and east towards our final destination.

The Lord's Lodge

Melbourne is definitely a city I could live in. After calling every number in the book, we found a hostel, the Lord's Lodge, that would let us park the van on the street and pay $10 a night to use the amenities--bathroom, kitchen, TV--good luck indeed. The spot was prime, the neighborhood hip and the hostel a regular UN--folks from Chile, Germany, Scotland, Italy, Japan, England spent each night cooking, drinking, playing cards.

We spent a lazy week there, visiting museums, gardens, and beaches. We reunited with Oded's friend Lisa, who he met traveling in Canada last summer. We spent Friday night dining in St. Kilda, Melbourne's claim to the beach, eating gelato and watching the sunset and the penguins come in. Saturday night found us at a hostel barbecue full of old friends and new, lots of food, sangria, and music. Sunday night we made our way south of the city to meet Oded's father's cousins who served us a never ending meal, straight off the grill.

After a few great days in the Grampians, an amazing drive on the Great Ocean Road, and Melbourne, I am confident that Victoria is the place to be.

To see photos of Melbourne, please click me

No Vacancy

The Great Ocean Road is not an experience that is meant to be written about--it is meant to be driven. Roughly 200 kilometers, the coastline and uncommercialized towns are packed full of fish and chips shops, second hand book stores, and weekend fairs. Australia has a habit of declaring things Great but the The Great Ocean Road definitely deserves its superlative. We drove the road east to west, from the Grampians to Melbourne, and started with the stretch that is most visually impressive.

After thousands of years of waves beating against the coast, fragments of limestone have eroded, leaving arches, islands, and stacks of former coast standing alone in the middle of almost unbelievably blue green water. We stopped at every turn off from the Bay of Islands to the Twelve Apostles, each one a dazzling piece of geological puzzle, alive in the sea.

The road is packed during the holidays with backpackers, foreigners and locals alike and accommodation is booked out from caravan parks to the highest end hotel. Nights found us parking on small side streets or at the back of a willing hostel and mornings found us washing up in public bathrooms, but it was spending a full three days taking in every view. It was on our last day that we succeeded in spotting koalas in the wild; curled up in tall trees right on the road, loads of koalas slept, ate and moved from branch to branch. We left the coast around Torquay, the capital of all things skate and surf, and took the highway to Melbourne.

To see photos of the Great Ocean Road, please click me

Introducing Mick & Shazza

We have never quite experienced quite the same reception as we did upon reaching the caravan park in the Grampians, a majestic mountain range in West Victoria. Hordes of kids, on bikes and on foot, ran after our van in a frenzied happiness that at first confused us and mostly scared us, as the youngsters banged the side of the van in unrestrained glee. Our reception clearly had more to do with Astro Boy than us. We came to a stop and I opened the side door, exposing our bed, to reprimand the blond boy who had so adamantly chased us. Before I could say anything, I heard, "Is this where you sleep? It looks comfortable," and a blond head all but jumps into the bed--a charmer in the making. Within moments, two dads came to claim the rabble rousers and within minutes the fate of our Grampians adventure was sealed.

After a discussion of Astro Boy, national parks and the validity of some past due pasta, Marc, Lyndel, Stoph and Rach acted as our hosts for the last hours of 2008 and the first of 2009. We could barely drink and eat all the beer, wine, scotch, and cake on offer, not to mention the hot Milo (cocoa)--my first in what promises to be a long standing habit. We had chosen to spend the New Year in nature, away from the crowds and the drinks, but somehow the party found us and it was somewhere in those last hours of 2008 that we unknowingly gained Aussie credibility.

The Grampians themselves are a place to be consumed--from the lookouts over lakes, towns and ranges to the abundant walks through rocky ascents, the nature is first class. A 2006 fire ravaged much of the area and the scars are still evident, but the town was packed with families. Many, like our new friends, set up shop year after year to celebrate the holidays. We hiked through the Grand Canyon and out to the Pinnacle, we stood at the foot of McKenzie Falls, and we pulled ourselves up to the summit of Mt. William, but the nature is not all that Halls Gap boast. It is a wonderland of sugar and treats--fresh fudge, stuffed back potatoes, ice cream scoops bigger than my fist. Heaven, indeed.

On our last night Stoph presented us with two bottles of wine and our new names. As Oded is often hard to pronounce for non-Hebrew speakers, Oded mnay times introduces himself as James, an army nickname that stuck. To save Oded this hassle in the future, Marc and Stoph gave Oded a true Aussie name, one that will never be mistaken or mispronounced--Mick. And where would Mick be without his gal pal Shazza? We left the Grampians after two days of being well cared for and properly entertained on all levels and reentered the world with our new identities--Mick and Shazza.

To see photos of the Grampians, please click me