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...