Snow Problem: It's no problem?

or, Snowmageddon 2013: Mideast Redux
 in which our Heroine is confined to a small, quasi-electricity-less, entirely-heat-less Apartment for  Four Days without her MacIntosh Computer yet somehow Valiantly Fights to Witness another Week in which the Lord Shows No Sign, alas, of Making His Return to Earth to proclaim Peace and Warmth and Put an End to all the Bitterness (of cold showers), the Strife (-ing through knee-high snowbanks) and Gnashing of Teeth(-cracking Bread and Stray Root-vegetables our Heroine has been Forced to Scavenge for, for want of Proper Consumables during said Involuntary Confinement)


I made the fateful decision to leave my computer and all my work at the office Wednesday night.  I was part of a joint choir concert way up North that evening and didn't want to schlep all that stuff around Israel.  The concert was good fun, but the weather was already monsoon-ish by the time we piled on the bus for home.  We barely got back before they closed all the roads going in and out of Jerusalem. (Never ye mind -- we singers paid the weather little heed, entertaining ourselves merrily enough all the way home.  I had conspired with a few others to convert our late-night, post-concert conveyance across the country into a proper Party Bus by doling out some whiskey I'd stashed onboard earlier, and teaching everyone the lyrics to such American classics as "Hit the Road, Jack". A jubilant time was had by all aboard-- save, perhaps, the bus driver.)


Of course we "heard tell of the storm 'a brewin" several days in advance.  But I assumed it was just going to be another overhyped meteorological doomsday scenario, after which I'd stand back and proudly declare (to myself or whatever people-group I happen to be standing next to at the time) that "No one on God's Blustery Earth is as tough as a Midwesterner", then chuckle to myself in a light, carefree way that nevertheless smacks of condescension.

I'm not laughing now, as I've been trying to coordinate several skype interviews, collaborative work meetings with my co-author and make headway re pressing deadlines all without stable/continued access to the interwebs.  I'm using M's computer right now, but the vowels won't always type and everything shows up in Hebrew characters, so it is, so to speak, a less than ideal situation.  Nevertheless, I thought I'd better let everyone know that I was okay. Or, maybe first tell you why I might not be okay (did reports of our mini-apocalypse even break into the Western news cycle? Maybe, if only because John Kerry is in town...) ...and then tell you that though I might not be okay, I am in fact okay.  (Okay, grandparents? :)

Here are a few snaps of a snow-laden Jerusalem, taken by people who were able to find their cameras in the darkness (over 30,000 Jerusalemites were without electricity for over 40 hours):

A dormant Church of the Dormition (see what I did there?)

 or, better yet,

It's Beginning Toll Look a Lot Like Christmas

or

Gentile Bells

(and now I'm going....)

There's No Place Like Dome for the Holy Dais

or

Rockin' around the Qubbat As-Sakhrah (eh)

or

Go Tell it on the Mount, Temple

or

Away, Imam Anger! / Snow-kids form their beds 

 or

Angels from the Ruins of Golan (too soon?)

or

Islam Mommy Kicking Snow in Clots?

The Great White Whale-ing Wall

or

Deck the Wall with Bows of Holy

or

The First No-wail

Frosty, the Shalom-men

 or

Walkin' by a Winter Wandern-jud

or

Go Dress Thee, Hairy Gentile Men / Lest no Kippah Display ?

I tried to work today, really I did-- I took a taxi up to the university (no public transport is running) and that was a mild adventure worth about 30 bucks.  When we arrived, the gates to the University were locked.  Alas and alack!  My scholarship! How it suffers!  Ah me, this is day 4 without any ability to do my research and I can't let myself feel at east.  Indeed, only the kids seem to be enjoying the snow with proper reckless abandon.  Hordes of families have driven up today from Tel Aviv just to see the stuff... adding to the traffic milieu, of course.  But no matter-- tis a rare occasion.  I only wish I weren't so dependent on my laptop for my work!

But enough of that.  It's nothing that would even give a Midwesterner pause, and yet this entire country has ground to a halt.  What can I do but wile away the hours with New York Times Crossword puzzles, or re-reading the one academic paper I have a hard copy of, or re-arranging M's plants in order of greeness?

I want to tell you two stories about the little Scottish church I go to here.  Then I should try to put in some work, because after all, as I am fond of telling scientists who are inevitably confused by what sort of research I do: "I don't need no lab -- my brain is my lab."  I guess it's just you and me this weekend, brain.  But first, the stories:

Story One:  last week a woman visiting the church was telling a group of us afterwards all about a beautiful new Nativity set made of olive wood she had recently purchased from a Bedouin craftswoman.  No sooner had she set it up on her windowsill (back in those days, long since past, when it was warm! Like....Tuesday) -- no sooner had she set it up and turned to sip her tea, but Mary and the baby Jesus went missing!

She didn't have to look far before seeing two scoundrel felines lurking with -- sure enough -- tiny wooden figurines in their maws.  She dove at the nearest cat, screeching "MARY MOTHER OF GOD!" and thus victoriously reclaimed the Blessed Virgin.  But at this point in her story-telling she sighed and sadly concluded with: "Och, but Aye could nae save the wee bairn!"  That's right, folks: A feral cat ate the baby Jesus.  Just ate him right up.  Unless that cat was Catholic (and I suspect not), eating Jesus was a bad move.  It only confirms what I have long suspected -- that Jerusalemite cats have had congress with The Beast; that they are the devoted minions of an abysmal lord, sent to spy on a holy city and to eat tiny wooden baby Jesuses painstakingly carved by nomadic indigenous peoples.

Story Two: this one goes out to my musician friends, especially church musician friends.  There is a fabulous young Korean woman who usually plays organ for us at the church, but she's been out of town these last few weeks.  From Lord knows where, a sweet but entirely whack-a-doodle woman bedecked in all self-knit articles of mismatched hue has humbly taken it upon herself to accompany our hymn-singing during Advent.  She may well have good intentions (though, actually, it's hard to say for sure), but the Good Lord just can't be pleased by the unique kind of racket the woman consistently generates with that instrument.

And it isn't just that she plays the wrong tempos, or even the wrong key signatures or the wrong hymns, or even some expertly disastrous combination thereof (as exemplified in today's service), but on top of it all she also plays too much or too little -- a single note of introduction for one hymn, a whole two verses for another. Or she might choose to go on playing through seven blasted verses of a song when the congregation has stopped after three.

She's so bad that it is deeply hilarious. It's important not to snigger though, because the congregation is small enough and the acoustics fine enough that they'd only conspire to locate the sin's origin.  But man, it is a difficult exercise not to burst into laughter at every hymn.  I suppose it is a cross I alone must bear.  Though perhaps not, because today even the preacher starting to lose patience when Thelma Marie (or whatever her name is) kept trying to start the next hymn while he was still talking.  And with the wrong notes. Repeatedly.

It went something like this:

Previous hymn ends on a loud, outrageous chord that is either entirely wrong or entirely Schoenberg-ian

Preacher [with jollity]: And now that we have celebrated the feast, let us ..

Loud burst of partial chromatic scale as Thelma Louise orwhateverhernameis slides across the organ bench turning pages in the hymnal

Preacher [with annoyance]: .. let us go out into the world in peace...

Another non-sequitor blast from the organ, this time in partial Lydian mode, as Thelma Louise adjusts one of her several layers of "coats"

Preacher: [with manifest vexation]: ...in peace [he emphasizes the word to achieve thinly-veiled irony] to Love and serve the Lord, that we may...

Thelma Louise prematurely starts in on the three-fold Amen, at irreverent tempo reminiscent of bacchanalian quadrille

Preacher: [summing all priestly virtues not to fly into a fit of frothing vitriolic rage]: NO, not YET!
[clears throat; collects himself, continues peaceably:] ... that we may shine the light of God's grace for all to see.

Long, awkward silence, during which the Preacher nods vigorously as though to cue the organ, yet organist fails to see him through several yards of self-constructed vintage scarf. Eventually, Thelma Louis receive the hint, the organ starts up again the three-fold Amen, but this time at the pace of lethargic, two-legged turtle wading through shrimp gumbo.  After only two "Amens", the organ abruptly and inexplicably drops out, leaving the congregation (of 5 persons, including myself) to muddle through the last "Amen" without accompaniment.  The preacher storms down the aisle and out the back of the church, while I stare straight ahead at the alter, attempting simultaneously to stifle uncontrollable laughter and tears of utter despair.

End scene.

It was like a bit from a British sketch-comedy sho.  Ah, me, what hilarious creatures we mortals be.

And now you are all caught up.  I will go snuggle up next to a heater, leave M use of her own computer, and attempt some scholarship of my own.  Let's to work, brain!

Back in J-Town, for a Fortnight

I seem to be having trouble focusing this afternoon.  It might have something to do with the strange weather: it's raining in Jerusalem! After two months (to the day) of living here and experiencing zero precipitation in any natural form (I had an incident with a sprinkler in late-October), I got off the bus this morning and under a spitting gray sky had to ask, "what is this meteorological nonsense?"  I also complained to myself about the chill brought on by the rain, which sunk the day's temperature by a full ten degrees... to 60.

It's rough out here in winter, I muttered, as I hugged myself and watched Hebrew University's feral cats scamper en masse toward the open doors of academic buildings.

But maybe the lack of focus shouldn't be blamed on the mercury dropping (...to  60. Don't you just hate me?) Mostly, I'm still über jet-lagged from my 10-day trip to the States for a conference and Thanksgiving, and also from a particular never-to-be-repeated, only marginally more fiscally conservative detour through Moscow's Vnukovo International Airport onboard Transaero, Mother Russia's flagship airline (cough) -- but that shall have to wait.  For it's already stopped raining, and that means return to normalcy, and return to work.  Besides, in just two (or so) weeks, I'll be headed home again for Christmas! (Ah, these lovely proximate holidays. It's like September if you're Jewish -- too much goodness and light in short space!) 

So: more on the above, anon.

In the meantime, I note with thanksgiving in my heart that my family and friends live in safe cities.  I further note, with great sadness in my heart, that as jihadist groups continue to gain momentum in Syria, life for the families and children there is a daily terror.  I try to understand for a moment what it might be like to look out my office window here in Jerusalem and, instead of raindrops tripping off the remaining leaves of a nearby myrtle, seeing this:

    

This video shows the bombing of a neighborhood in the Syrian town of Deir ez-Zur, filmed by a man from his office window.  It happened yesterday.

Bombs in Beirut

The Iranian Embassy in Beirut was bombed this morning, about the time I was making myself toast and coffee in my apartment in Jerusalem.  Over 23 people were killed, countless injured, and no one as yet has claimed responsibility.  

Meanwhile, traffic in Jerusalem has been inordinately Los Angeles-like since Sunday, when President Hollande of France arrived (amid much pomp and circumstance and...motorcade) in order to discuss strategy re Iran with the Israeli government.  I noticed something was up when I walked past a half-dozen armed Israeli soldiers in order to get to choir rehearsal on Sunday night -- Hollande is staying at the King David Hotel, which is directly across from the YMCA where we practice (incidentally, the Y is one the most beautiful buildings in Jerusalem).  Midway through practice we trouped down the stairs to perform Bruckner's "Locus iste" in the lobby of the Y, just in case the wind was in the right direction and would carry our voices over to the King David and smack into Hollande's face.  I'm not sure he heard us after all that, but the acoustics down in the lobby were nice anyway.

Then yesterday it took the bus 45 minutes (instead of the usual 5) to go from one end of Givat Ram to the other end where campus is, because of heightened security around the Knesset -- the Israeli parliament, whose building you can see from my office window, and which for several days will play host to the aforementioned foreign dignitary as he tries to convince Netanyahu to "loosen up" on Iran. Which is interesting, but maybe not 40-extra-minutes of my workday interesting.

Last night I happened to eat dinner next to an elderly pair of charming Parisians, and got their inside opinion about these recent diplomatic maneuvers.  I hadn't interacted with them until partway through our respective dinners, I made a fatefully vigorous stab at my chicken which sent the targeted chicken-part into my lap and the fork on a quasi-parabolic trajectory towards the feet of the French.  After they finished laughing at me ("Ah hahn hahn!"), I asked what they thought of Hollande's visit.  Turns out most of the French people are heavily pro-Palestine, and that has meant traditionally a rather strained relationship between the two countries. So now Hollande's snuggling up to the Israelis (and, I note, away from the US) on the crucial issue of Iran's progress towards nuclear armament has won le Président no great affection at home.  At no time during our conversation did the actual question of whether or not Iran should be aided in its endeavor to build nuclear weapons come up.  The locus of conversation was entirely political shindiggery among the US, France and Israel.  I found this indifference towards the prosepct of Iran's having a nuclear arsenal almost as alarming as the prospect itself.

Of course you can read all this in today's New York Times.  But it's different when I remember, for instance, that a mere 127 miles north-northwest of me sits a smoking Beirut, and 136 miles to the north-northeast, a beleaguered Damascus.  I go now to enjoy a quiet lunch break on a sprawling green lawn (populated, as usual, primarily by scrappy kittens) in one of precious few peaceful capital cities in this entire region. And that's just something reading the newspaper reports can't quite capture.

Merry Birthday to Me!

Since Wednesday was a work day, I had to wait until today to give myself a little birthday treat.  And that treat was just to go exploring again in the Old City.

Sometimes I don't speak at all while I wander the ancient streets -- I just receive, absorb.  But today I had several random encounters with people.  And by "people" I mean "men", because it was all men who approached me, with the exception of one be-scarfed old woman who unleashed a torrent of Russian at me. I tried to stop her, saying "Sorry, I don't...I don't speak Russian." She paused a beat, looked at me incredulously and asked "Nyet?", and when I shook my head she just kept right on talkin'.  ("In Soviet Russia, Russian speak you!")

I went for the second time to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.  Before moving here, a friend who'd lived in Jerusalem told me "Visit the Church of the Sepulchre as often as you can-- it will be an entirely different experience each time you go."  He was absolutely right.  The first time I went was mid-afternoon on a weekday, and the church was an ocean of pilgrims pushing and shoving and jostling for better camera angles.

Tonight, however, I arrived just in time for Friday evening prayers.  The church is shared by 5 different religious sects, and those with monastic orders take turns walking throughout the whole church chanting their evening compline, with robes, beads, candles and incense.  It is as though the church is washed by three separate tides of worshippers -- three distinct processions of monks and priests and holy fathers who stop at each chapel to intone the very words their brothers and fathers have intoned in those same spots, for millennia.  A sacred three-part round.

Here are a full two seconds (sorry...I'm not so talented at videos) from the Armenians:

Watching each procession pass through the church was an otherwordly experience.  And finally, for the first time in Jerusalem, I really got it-- I felt the pull, the magnetism, the sheer gravity of such a sacred space.  I was entranced.  I could have stood watching the shadows flit across those ancient stone for hours, inhaling deeply the clouds of incense -- a different, indescribable perfume for each of the three congregations -- until it rose above the monk's candle flames and disappeared into black vaulted heights.  Someone had anointed the Stone of the Anointing itself, and the aroma of the holy oil was so overpowering that it soaked into your skin and made you feel dizzy.

I must have wandered past each chapel at least four or five times (some of which pictured below).  I couldn't get enough; this kind of holiness haunts a person.  It was, for a wanna-be-mystic like myself, like being in a womb: dark, warm, all at once deeply comforting yet unsettlingly ethereal, infused with a keen sense - an unshakeable awareness - of life-giving-ness and of death.

Stairs leading down to the chapel of St Helena

 

    Lighting candles outside the Aedicule, where the Holy Sepulchre is housed.  I have not yet entered       the Aedicule, but will try on my next visit.

One of today's random encounters with men happened just behind the Aedicule: an Orthodox man came up to me and started conversation in hushed tones.  He is Aramaic, and has family on the West Bank.  He is a carpenter in Jerusalem, but also sometimes tries to make a little extra cash by giving tours in the Old City.  He asked me about my faith, and I told him I was a Christian.  He said "Yes, I am Orthodox Christian too.  But I am not very religious."  I asked him what that meant, and then explained that it was very different for me.  That's how I ended up sharing the Gospel with an old man right there in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.  When we had finished talking, he blessed me and said he hoped we would see each other there again.  His name was Ammon.

On a less serious, yet related, note: I figured out how to get rid of random guys who hit on you.  It isn't a sure-fire method, and it really only works in Jerusalem, or possibly certain parts of Brooklyn.  But this is how I figured it out: I was sitting outside at a cafe, minding my own business (and that business happened to include one large cappuccino and one generous slice of Snickers pie) when a very short, very eager young man walked up to my table, pulled up a chair and engaged my attention with the following statements produced in abnormally quick succession: "Wow, that pie looks delicious You have the most lovely eyes Where were you born, You are American probably, I am from California but now study the Torah and am learning all about my Jewishness."

When he finally gave me a chance to respond to all of this, it very quickly emerged that I was not, in fact, myself Jewish (I was here for work, primarily).  Upon learning about my non-Jewishness he said "Oh well, that's alright" (Um, thanks?) "The important thing is to get along, and to be friends, don't you think? I think that's most important."

To which of course I said (because I'm an idiot and can't help starting philosophical argument with every. single. person.) "But do you really think it's as simple as that?  Surely it wouldn't be so difficult to 'get along' as you say, if there was nothing deeper to our differences.  But there is, don't you think? Different faiths represent entirely different ways of seeing the world, of looking for truth.  Don't you agree?   I mean, I am a Christian--  a Protestant, in fact..."

At this point he cut me off and mumbled (seriously, he looked down at his shoes and mumbled) something along the lines of "Oh well, yes, I think we can be friends, very good friends, just friends, but in terms of marriage, yes, marriage is a very different thing I think, so I don't think that I... that you... yes, marriage is different but we can be friends."  And as soon as he said this, he hastily shook my hand, got up,  and sped-walked back down the street.  I guess I should have realized sooner that the key to divesting oneself of kindly-intended yet unwanted attention from men here in Jerusalem is to (i) determine their religion, then (ii) claim affiliation to a religion they deem "incompatible."  They'll doff their hat and move right along to the next girl.

My last random encounter occurred as I headed home through the markets.  I tend to ignore the shops all along the streets in the Old City because the vendors are fairly aggressive -- if you make eye contact with any of their merchandise they're aware of it immediately and hound you for several yards past their shop.

So yes, as a rule, avoid eye contact with peddlers and their wares.  But tonight I happened upon a little shop where a young man stood at the back making his own t-shirts.  I walked in, asked him all about how it works, and then we spent the next 25 minutes designing and making my very own birthday present.  He was an enormous flirt, but he wasn't so bad looking, either (and he thought I was funny. Yay! I'm funny!) so I ended up paying the guy 32 bucks for the shirt when I suspect I could have haggled him down to $20.  The truth, though, is that together we made something absolutely priceless. No... it wasn't "a nice memory" or "a friend".
Wanna see?

That's right, kids: it says Green Bay Packers in Hebrew. Somewhat shoddily, too, if you look closely.  It's so random and excellent I just can't help but love the dickens out of it.  The perfect end to a perfectly odd little evening spent in the J-town.

And so with that, Merry Birthday to me, and to me a good night!

(Good night to y'all too... in a few hours ;)

Missions Accomplished

It's been a busy and fruitful week here in J-town.  I continue to sort out the finer details of life, like where to buy toothpaste and contact lens solution, how to use ATMs entirely in Hebrew, who to call to get the piano tuned, and finding a doctor.

And I did all those things just today! (Plus, I finished a chapter for the ole book, translated some German philosophy, reviewed some notes on Loop Quantum Gravity, applied to a few more tenure-track jobs, practiced Scriabin's Sonata No. 5 and had a 3 hour rehearsal with the Jerusalem Chamber Choir! In Hebrew! )

So feeling very productive and happy.  Although the visit to the doctor was nearly a disaster.  The bus was really late, and I was overly confident and didn't bring a map with me.  I ended up getting off the bus about, oh, a good half-hour too soon.  Which I didn't realize-- I thought I was in the exact right neighborhood, until sufficient time had elapsed such that (i) I was 20 minutes late to my appointment, and (ii) my pride re spatial awareness and map-memorizing skills had shriveled to the size of an overcooked cherry tomato.

I stopped two guys who were getting into their truck and asked where the medical center was, still believing it to be near by.  They sort of laughed at me (hint number one) and conferred with themselves in Hebrew for a good while (hint number two) and finally said they'd better just give me a ride. (Hint number three).

Now now, Grandparents, I want to point out that I am in fact still alive.  I am proud to say I have hitchhiked several times now, and all completely safely, and I even picked up a male hitchhiker in Scotland once. And it was all completely safe.  Safe safe safe safe.

I won't do it again, though.  I promise.

In today's instance, it probably wasn't super wise of me, especially because the party in question was two dudes with a van and, by the way, since they were gardeners the van was chock-full of garden implements and sharp tools etc. etc.  Lots of shovels for burying bodies.

But ... both guys were shorter than me.  And.... they seemed like they just wanted to go home after a long day of work.  And... you gotta go with your gut instinct on these thing.  And my gut said "You're Very Very Late, Stop Messing Around and Get in the Stupid Van" and my other gut said "They seem like nice guys."

Which they were.  All told, I was only 35 minutes late, and the doctor was pretty cool.  Very laid back.  They definitely don't have universal health care here, and I definitely had to pay an exorbitant fee just to talk to a guy for 15 minutes, but I certainly don't miss the cold, factual stoicism and obvious burn-out exhibited by every physician I ever met in the UK.

So, success!


Ooh! And I've mastered the art of tipping in Israel.  I know, I know, it doesn't seem like the sort of thing a person should have to "master", but I'm such a social space-nut (I really don't know how else to describe it) that it takes practice for me.  I mean, there are few factors to consider.  First, I'm usually dining alone.  I become very introverted and shy and always, always, always have reading material with me. Second, the menu is often in Hebrew, or the dishes are Israeli dishes I don't recognize. Which is mostly adventurous, but somewhat nerve-wracking.  And third, food is not so cheap here.   This city is expensivo, and yes of course, that's even after converting New Israeli Shekals into dollars (the rate is 3.6 NIS to 1 USD, in case you were interested).

After a while (and by that I mean, after several years of eating meals in countless restaurants in different cities all over the world) you get fairly comfortable eating dinner alone.  You even start to own it a little.
But there's this other slight awkwardness about dining alone that I haven't yet gotten over.  And that's when the waiters are cute.  It's a real problem here, because -- and I exaggerate not -- the waitstaffs in this city seem to be uncommonly good-looking.  It's shocking, really.

I heard once on NPR (man, I miss NPR) that in times of economic strain the waitstaff in restaurants increase in physical attractiveness noticeably.  Because when the market is flooded with young kids looking for a gig to pay off student loans from that ever-lucrative B.A. in Theatre they did at NYU, the better-looking ones from among the pool of qualified applicants get hired faster.  (By the way, I believe a similar story was told by the Wall Street Journal, regarding the positive correlation between height and success (or maybe it was power.  Whatever).  So, thanks for that leg-up, parents. *wink*)

I don't think Jerusalem is in a time of especial economic downturn or anything, but gosh.  I get pretty flustered just about every time I eat because inevitably some dashing, dark young foreign man is taking my order, at my beck and call, and serving me delicious food.  (Which is  a nigh-unbeatable skill set, by the way)  But the problem is that I get all flustered, and usually by the time the bill arrives I'm in such a tizzy and feeling so awkward that I don't wait for change.  Last week, in the instance of one particularly handsome (and particularly attentive, I'd like to add) waiter, I accidentally left a 48% tip.  Which is crazy, especially given that the usual rate here is 10%.

I need to work on this, as it is literally costing me.  But perhaps this little quirk is already paying itself off.  I mean, for one thing, how much you wanna bet that waiter would love to see little ole me with my reckless tipping habits seated at his table again?  And, because I'm always dining alone I often get free stuff.  Like, free dessert or free bread or a free refill of the wine.  I'm not entirely sure if this is just what is done in Israel-- good hospitality and so forth -- or if the waitstaff feel sorry for me, sitting in the corner dribbling Matbucha on my chin whilst attempting to reading an enormous George Eliot novel, whose pages I've pinned down using the salt and pepper shaker in order to have both hands available for food-related requirements, and squinting at the itty bitty print with the light of my table's sole votive candle.  But I'm not complaining.  I mean, free dessert? Color me happy!

Modus Operandi

I found a grocery store on my street that sells jars of peanut butter.


That is all.




.

A Room of One's Own

"A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."  -- Virginia Woolf

"A woman must have no money and a room of her own if she is to write non-fiction."  -- Me

- - - - - - - - - 

Well kids, I finally have my own apartment.  Whoop whoop!  I still share a kitchen and laundry room with M, but yesterday I settled into my very own bathroom, bedroom, and enormous living room.


 What's that you say? You'd like to see pictures?


 First, a look around the living room.  There's my front door on the left -->

The view standing in my doorway

And a view towards my room and the kitchen.  Note the glorious instrument sitting against this wall!  It is at present, however, in wallopingly-bad tune.  Also note the very French-ish or Japanese-ish couch-thing (they call me Captain Description over here) which folds out into a queen-sized bed, just for my visiting friends and relations! {NOT SO SUBLTE HINT}. 

This is the sweet little bedroom.  I'm sort of liking this exceedingly-low-mattress thing.  That way I can literally roll out of bed in the morning.  Seriously, I already tried it.  It is fun.

a few items from market

And a nice little B&W shot looking towards M's section of the apartment.  She's got a serious Japanese thing going on.  Simple, modern, full of iron teapots.  It's great.

Yesterday I had an a-typically artsy day.  In the morning M and I went to a gallery opening north of the city center.  It was my first real gallery opening, complete with bizarre modern art and a few really excellent photographs by a Danish artist.  She was there, and had totally hip earrings.  The German ambassador was also there, and the French consulate showed up.  But the coolest thing was wine on the roof of the museum overlooking the old city, and these little sesame-seed coated balls stuffed with green olives.  I... I ate a lot of those.  So many, in fact, that I started getting the stink-eye from the chick serving the wine.   But a kid's gotta eat after all that weirdness.  

After that M and I walked through the YMCA in Jerusalem, which is not at all like any YMCA I've ever seen in the States.  It's magnificent, like a shiek's palace in a desert oasis.  (Or do shieks live in tents? And is it inappropriate to use Arabic similes here? These are questions I don't want to ask.)

Anyway, they're having a music festival a the Y this weekend, and M introduced me to several choir folks who I'll audition for next week.   Hooray!

That evening M and I were in for a special treat: we were invited to have Shabbat dinner with Elan, who is the owner and chef at a rather famous restaurant here in Jerusalem.  We sated ourselves on glorious fare while Elan regaled us with stories of the dramatics of restauranteering.  One particular story was quite recent, and the dramatis personae included a young woman in the role of hostess who made a HUGE mistake of the sort I know I would certainly make, if ever asked to be hostess at a famous restaurant.  And so after the story was done, I offered up a silent thanksgiving for gainful employment in the realm of academia, where these sorts of mishaps are so regular they are almost expected.

Here's what happened.  One of France's former prime ministers was in Jerusalem this week, and so of course he had his people make reservations to dine at Elan's place (so says Elan, who is by no means shy about his establishment's fame).  For some reason Elan was not at the restaurant the day the foreign dignitary and his entourage arrived, and the hostess didn't know who this very famous person was.  (Can you recognize ex-prime ministers of foreign countries? Neither can I.  But then again, neither of us work as hostesses at internationally renowned eating joints).  

So the girl seats the four Frenchies, and it just so happens that at about the same time, four other completely ordinary French tourists come to the restaurant to eat.  While they are having their respective meals, the restaurant receives a call from the big-wigs in Paris instructing that the bill of the Frenchman's table be paid in full, and the big-wigs proceed to give pertinent bill-settling information.  The hostess says right-o, that's swell, got it, hangs up, and proceeds to tell the wrong table of French diners that their bill of fare will be paid in full by some important-sounding people in Paris.  Of course, the tourists are amazed and surprised and don't for a second stop to ponder pourquoi dans la terre verte de Dieu some prominent Parisians not only happened to know exactly when they would be eating at that exact place on that exact day, and to randomly foot the bill.  So of course, they accept this generosity and continue to order dishes and drinks and desserts, enjoying to their touristy hearts' content a meal fit for... well, fit for a prime minister.  And the big-wigs in Paris get charged for this random, unintentional act of extreme kindness on their behalf toward their own common-folk.  

Meanwhile, the ex-PM and his cohort finish their meal, dab their mouths with linen, and rise to go.  But not before The Dignitary himself -- you guessed it -- pays for the entire meal out of his own pocket.

Was there ever a more à propros moment to cry foux pas? I think not.  And cry Elan did.  

The moral of the story is this: the French are generous to former leaders, no?  

And the other moral of the story is: I finally have a friend who is a famous chef.  Bucket-list score!   

Today I am making up for my pretend life riding the cultural forefront of Jerusalem by doing mundane academic crap.  But I also felt obligated to make up to myself for all the artsy-ness of yesterday and the latent shame I experience each time I encounter modern art and remain thoroughly unmoved by it, yet am judged when expressing said disaffectation to Artist and Lovers of Art.  I need to resuscitate my own artistic sensibilities in the wake of all that by drowning myself in something objectively full of goodness and light.  I slap a cd into the stereo and say, to no one in particular, and possibly into a pretend microphone, "Here's something everyone can feel moved by: Vince Guaraldi!" And then do a little Peanuts-character dance across my living room floor. 

My living room.  Ah, it is so good: after many months of suitcase-living I have settled into, and can frolic freely (and I won't lie, sometimes pant-lessly) within, a room of my very own.   

Guess that means it's also time to start writing that non-fiction...  

Thanksgiving Comes Early

Tonight I thought I'd make a list of a few things in Jerusalem that make my heart glad.

First, a big one:  I'm thankful to be alive.  I don't just say that as a reminder to ease the worries of my gentle grandfolk.  Nor do I say it in a chirpy poetical sense -- no, I really mean it: I'm glad to be alive.  Because tonight I was washing up after dinner with flatmate M and mid-conversation she yelps "No no no no! Not that one!" and snatches the cloth I'd been using to wipe down spoons from out of my fingers.  "That cloth is the one I use for economica! You know, what is the English word for economica... detergent?"  And she pulls out from under the sink a tub of industrial strength cleaner;  I take a whiff and -- oh yes -- pure bleach.

That's right folks, for 13 days now I've been using extremely minimal amounts of water (because it's a precious resource in Israel. I was only doing my part for conservation of course, to say nothing of expediency...) and the offending bleach-soaked cloth to wipe down the plates and spoons and teacups of three adults.   M and I laughed about it, but deep down I think we also died a little.

Okay.  Moving on to lighter things:

-- I really enjoy the dates here.  Calm yourself, you romance-eager nosy-nosers, and allow me to finish --  I mean dates as in the fruits, not the nuts. No wait, I didn't mean it that way! I meant nuts as in crazies.  You know, the random dudes who materialize ex nihilo and ask me to have a drink with them. (On a side note: one day, perhaps soon, I'll be courageous enough to say "yes"to one of these people.  And then proceed to order the most expensive single-malt whiskey on the shelf.  This is, in case you were wondering/judging me, one of the very small ways in which I extract recompense from the universe for the palpable existence of gender bias against women in academia. It is, therefore, entirely legitimate for me so to act.)

-- There is a cultural center and communal courtyard (holy alliteration, batgirl!) just behind our building.  On Fridays there is a small open-air market there, where people hock jewelry, grind coffee, display stitch-work, and sell vegetables, goat cheeses, challah for the sabbath and marvelous plump fruits.  If we're lucky they set up load speakers and blast the cats out of the courtyard with good ole American jams from either the 1960s or 1980s (yes, only those two decades).

On other nights when I get home from the university, I will hear the tune of a waltz or big band brass coming from the wide-open windows of the center.  If I crouch on the balcony just right, I can watch through the trees as a roomful of my neighbors twirl and glide in each others' arms.  It makes me deeply happy.  And of course on Sabbath there is lovely sad singing in that very room.

-- Cat-watching on the lawn outside my office is swiftly becoming my favorite recreational sport.  There is no end to the strangeness, and hilarity, of scattered handfuls of flinching, dodging felines as they prowl the grass for bits of wayward falafel.

-- Speaking of my office, I am thankful for it, and here 'tis:

Lovely, no? Though at present it has what Jennie B would call "an embarrassment of book space".  Shortly to be solved, however: much of Gerald Holton's academic library will soon be shelved there.  (At which point, I ain't gonna lie, I'll sit in my leather chair across from those erstwhile-empty shelves now teeming with excellent history and philosophy and physics literature and fan my fingers together whilst croning "Welcome, my prettieeeeees".  Incidentally, this is the same manner in which I plan to greet PhD students who wander into my office.  I mean "our" office.  Yes.)

 And for the nerds out there, if you direct your attention to the left of the picture you see a microfilm machine (my own! my preciousssss) sitting atop the cabinets which contain Hebrew University's oh-so-microfilmy set of the Archives for the History of Quantum Physics (or "AHQP", for those who wish to impress at cocktail parties).  I can't wait to play with it all.  Yes, yes, I have digital access to the AHQP already... but I can't resist getting my little grubby fingers on the physical stuff of it (ah, strike that-- clean fingers. Recall  that nontrivial volumes of bleach have been handled by yours truly in recent days...).  Mircofilm.  It's hardcore vintage library geekery, and all you hipsters can shuffle on off to Buffalo.  It's like owning your dad's 8-track player and accompanying 8-track cassette of The Doors.  In short, excellent good fun.

The window in my office faces just such an angle that if the wind is coming down from the hills in just such a way, you can hear the über-talented kids over at the Jerusalem Academy of Music and Dance practicing their respective arts.  Well, I haven't exactly heard the dancers.  But plenty of opera and piano and the occasional tenor saxophone strain reaches the airwaves proximate to my window. Youths who love classical music! It's enough to turn my heart all akimbo.  

Here are a few other pictures of the Givat Ram campus, for your partakin':

 

Main entrance to the campus (also below)

Two tomcats roaming my office building, up to no darn good.

Oh, and what's this I see directly across the hall from my office? 

Mmm.  Soak up the genius.  Oh, and mom-- I finally asked today where the actual, coffee-stained, ink-blotted tear-soaked sweat-dampened Einstein papers and letters were.  And they're in a super-secret temperature-controlled, idiot-proof room adjacent to the archive. They only take The Originals out for special exhibits or visiting foreign dignitaries.  So come on over, famous folks, and I'll get you and me both a special tour.  I'm looking at you, Huda bint Abdullah Al Shaikh, wife of the late Sultan bin Abdulaziz Al Saud -- I know that you both read this blog and deeply desire to see Einstein's original papers.

The Levi Building (where I work), through the trees.

Also on campus is the National Library, which extends over the hillside (see below)  

I suppose that's a pretty good list of thanksgiving for today.  Here's to discovering still more tomorrow...

Several Thousand Words' Worth

Jerusalem Railway Bridge

Model of Second Temple Jerusalem @ Israel Museum.
(Height of the temple walls ~ 2 feet)

"What is this? A center for ants?"

Monastery of the Cross

On the Street Where I Live

Two soldiers walk toward Mount Zion (Church of the Dormition visible at top) 

Dusk over the Valley of Hinnom (for its dark history, click here)

Yemin Moshe and the Montefiore Windmill

Inside the Old City

Church of the Holy Sepulchre (including the Immovable Ladder).  This church
sits atop Golgatha, the traditional site of Jesus' crucifixion.  It is also said to be the place of Jesus' burial. 

The pictures to the right and below are of The Stone of Anointing.  Crusaders thought this stone was where Jesus' body was laid while prepared for burial.




The stone was surrounded by people kissing it, rubbing it with cloth, and pouring personal objects on it (icons, rosaries, wallets, etc.) in order to receive blessings.

In a chapel several stories  below street level you can see stone scratchings made by the first Crusaders. 

Outside the Old City, Zion Gate

As I walked the parapets of the Old City last night, I turned a corner and there it was: the Dome of the Rock.
It looked dusty.  I wanted to dust it.

Men praying at the Western Wall

The Western Wall divided: women on the right, men on the left. 

The portion of the western wall extending beneath street level.
Many people believe this portion of the wall is nearest the original site of the Holy of Holies

Tunnels under the Western Wall

Looking down to the bedrock of ancient Jerusalem

Jerusalem at Night: Present Day

Jerusalem at Night: Jesus' Day