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.
Tuesday, November 19
Saturday, November 16
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.
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 ;)
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
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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 ;)
Monday, November 11
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!
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!
Monday, November 4
Modus Operandi
I found a grocery store on my street that sells jars of peanut butter.
That is all.
.
That is all.
.
Saturday, November 2
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 -->
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...
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