Here and There

It's been awhile since I've written, so before I dive into this blog, I might offer a bit of context: I wound up taking a whirlwind trip home to the States for three weeks at the end of July. The trip started off with a bang when a rocket hit near the airport and the American airlines shut down their Tel Aviv circuit. I spent two days on hold with the airlines to see if I'd actually be able to get out. I finally made it via Spain (Olé!) and went immediately from the desert and a war to a week at the lake with weenie roasts, Bingo (where I won big: $4.75), water skiing, and family that I hadn't seen for over five years.


From there, it was two weeks at home with more family time, doctors' appointments, feasting on Asheville's plethora of organic meats and ice cream flavors, wonderful friends, a frisbee tournament, and oh, working part-time from home with the dogs and the doorbells during that whole period.

When I returned home to Jerusalem, I immediately started work again and finished moving apartments - a process that had been turned into a tight-quartered circus of frustration and solidarity. I'd technically moved in before-hand, but joined forces (and space) with the departing roommate as we were both trying to figure out how to escape the country during the airport shutdown.  I'm now living with a delightful British friend in the same neighborhood as before, with so many trees, functional internet from anywhere in the apartment, AND A PATIO! (The only downside is that I can no longer randomly take on a British accent without wondering if I might be offensive instead of just strange.)

I took on all of these life adventures with full force, and then spent last weekend kind of laying on the couch, alternating between a book and staring off into space (...and yet, couldn't seem to figure out what was wrong with me). So, that's what's new with me, and this blog is about the parallels that I've encountered as I bounced between my two homes.

HERE AND THERE

There, a far off rumbling is a thunderstorm trying to gauge its ambition. You can set your watch by its timing, but it doesn't often telegraph its might. 

Here, perhaps a truck shifting into second gear; perhaps a rocket being intercepted and falling in defeated shrapnel on a neighboring village. The magnitude is a point of boastful pride, but its the timing that will catch you off guard. 

There, ISIS is my friend’s bar – I watched his family turn the dilapidated movie theater into an elegant restaurant and festive music venue. I’d often walk over from my house for the best habanero cocktail I’ve ever had, or important civic causes like bluegrass shows to raise money for bike lanes and the esteem of self-impoverished hipsters.

Here, ISIS is also my neighbor (but they’re not so big on the cocktails): the increasingly powerful Islamic state garnering support and beheading babies in Syria and northern Iraq. Are they the ones taking advantage of the volatile times to launch a few friendly reminders of their presence across the northern border?

There, everything feels exactly the same as as how I left it - like a dollhouse discovered in the attic. 

Here, there is a mild breeze whispering of change, and everyone is holding his breath to see which way it will shift.

There, I dodge street performers and vagabonds in a bustling downtown, waving to the occasional familiar face.

Here, I dodge between tall, pointy hats of bishops, swiveling tourist cameras, and high-speed pita carts. I make my daily greetings to vendors, beggars, and taxi drivers stationed along my route to work.

There, I wait in line to be handed a menu, but I already know what I want: the chocolate mousse stout cake and a liquid truffle – smoked sea salt and maple of course. 

Here, I stand in a gaggle at the sneeze glass (if I’ve chosen carefully). There is no menu, but I already know that I want tabouleh, a carton of hummus, and some baba ganoush if they've got it.

There, the world around me seems certain, and I feel restless. 

Here, I feel a sense of calm despite the world’s uncertainty. I wish I could understand why this paradox guides my course.

There, I worry if my brother will be safe walking down the street in broad daylight. Will the police turn on him? Would strangers turn on him? 

Here, I worry if my neighbors will be safe walking down the street in broad daylight. Will the police turn on them? Will strangers turn on them? I sit in the comfort of my home, nestled down with a cup of coffee mixed with guilt, compassion, and a spoonful of sugar; never doubting my own safety, I watch the borders of my worlds blur. A protestor asks despondently of those holding the power and pointing the guns: “Why won’t they walk with us? Why don’t they want better?” Is there any difference between Ferguson, Missouri and Damascus Gate? And I can’t remember if I’m here or there. 

How do I Eat This?

Excuse me, but how do I eat this?

 “The land of milk and honey” is somewhat misleading as a description of the Holy Land. More like the land of processed white bread. The pita is like Mexico’s tortilla or China’s white rice…or Asheville’s whole grain, organic, free range and spiritually harvested quinoa. And after five months of a steady diet built precariously on a foundation of empty carbs, I noticed one morning in April that my body was beginning to say “Halas!” (enough in Arabic).

No one likes to admit they have a bizarre rash – just the very word itself induces collective jitters in travelers around the world. But that’s what I got – a fierce Lichtenstein complex on the upper half of my body (thank the Lord for small graces) from my shoulders down to my fingertips, culminating in a hulk-like swelling and bubbling in the palms of my hands. And oh does it itch? Like hell.

But even when my instincts about the correlation between gluten and my “manky” hands  - as my British friend calls them - were confirmed by a local doctor, I still continued to explore alternative factors like cleaning solutions and laundry detergent while trying to scrape away the truth with my fingernails. Since reality set in, I’ve gone through a number of series of committed anti-gluten regimens and cookie-driven denial, cycling me through varying degrees of maddening itchiness.

At the moment I’m back into a semi-committed relationship with rice cakes and exploring how the hell I can also enjoy what I love most about the region’s food culture: falafel and hummus and all of the other delectable dips, goos, spices, and tapenades the Middle East is famous for. I’ve come to realize that bread is simply the vehicle for the awesomeness, but I’m having to adapt my digestion patterns to accommodate my new reality. I can spoon the falafel and its toppings out of the pita; the makings of a bagel are just as good on a salad; and croissants…well, sometimes I still shed a tear or two over the loss of chocolate croissants (or steal a bite of the Belgian chocolate cake that has melted onto my side of the ice cream bowl. It’s a process…)

But I was recently considering this question of having to consistently ask “how do I eat this?” as I deal with a completely other form of digesting the Middle East. I have no idea what international news is focusing on outside of the World Cup, but around here and splattered all over Facebook are outcries, speculations, and escalating emotions about three young settlers who were recently abducted in the West Bank. At the most basic level, this is a tragic and terrifying story of families experiencing their worst nightmares. It’s one we are unfortunately not unfamiliar with in the US in terms of wayward hikers and the nauseating rise in school shootings. But this kidnapping is also part of a greater political narrative here – that of the occupation. These kids and their families are living on contentious land – land that by international law does not belong to them. They are intentionally residing in harm’s way as an expression of their political and religious values, and their absence is naturally causing a ruckus on both sides of the wall.

Feeling overall saddened and confused about the situation, I’ve turned to a social compass for support, but my community seems just as perplexed as I am. Some of my friends are in a complete dishevelment about this kidnapping, demanding the return of our boys, cursing the evil of the Palestinian leadership and spending hours praying at the Western Wall. Others are focused on the politics of the situation –they are asking why no terrorist organization has yet claimed responsibility for the assault as it traditionally would; why the Palestinian Authority is being held accountable publicly but behind closed doors the Israeli government is rejecting their help; pointing out the hypocrisy in the scores of arrests have been made at random throughout the West Bank. Nearly one hundred young Palestinian men are being held for questioning – simply not coming home to their parents at night. Still others have no idea what to think about where they stand politically, but are just aching for the individuals caught in the conflict as they watch tensions rise in their back yard (and holding their breaths as we welcome over three hundred Ultimate Peace campers and staff to camp).

I’m wondering how to eat this. I think that in a previous chapter of my life, I would have swallowed this frenetic energy and carried it deep in my belly - digesting it like the Eucharist to somehow feel connected. But this time I feel disconnected from this crisis, almost like I’m floating above it. I’m choosing not to read the articles and pay attention to the news - to instead focus on what I want and what I can control. I remember someone asking me once how I could possibly help a beaten man simply by letting myself get beaten.  Does understanding someone else’s inner turmoil make me better serve the world? If the answer is no, which is a relatively new theory I’m entertaining, then what I seem to be doing with my life experience now is taking a lick or two off the top and then leaving the rest – acknowledging that if I chew it up and swallow, it will make me too raw to function. But isn’t that cheating? Is it okay to dig all the good stuff out of the middle and leave behind the stuff that hurts? Are we allowed to suck the falafels and meat out of the sandwich and leave the pita behind?  

Parental Advisory

For the first time in 22 years, these fine, upstanding citizens are flying across the ocean. 

Mom & Dad Winner

As I write this, they’re landing at Ben Gurion airport in Israel and making their way to Jerusalem. In their honor, I’ve thought of a few words of advice to help curb their culture shock and embrace this adventure. I think this will be an ongoing blog post as I imagine there will be a couple of times throughout their visit when I will say, “Woop, should have thought to tell you that…” (I also totally welcome any readers who are familiar with the area to send me other thoughts to add.) But without further ado, here is the first installment:

Scroll to the bottom for updates 

•            Bring shoes with traction. Thousands of battles and pilgrims trodding the stones of the Old City have worn them down quite a bit. And avoid the area altogether in the rain – it becomes like a luge. Once I saw this Orthodox Russian woman slide straight from the Jewish Quarter into the Muslim Quarter’s barbershop in one quick run – she made incredible time, too.

•           Throw your concept of space out the window. You think that bus can’t fit? It totally can. (Just get out of the Armenian Quarter tunnel before it does.) It’s not uncommon for a vendor to help you make change by digging into your purse or the next customer “in line” at the nut stand to breathe down your neck (or more accurately, shove his cashews right past you). They may look like us and many of them speak our language, but this is not the wide-open plains of Kansas anymore.
•           You can drink Jerusalem water (and most anywhere in the country) from the tap. It’s perfectly safe. Just note: drinking too much of it can lead to delusions that you are the messiah.
•           Upon my arrival, my good friend gave me some powerful advice that I have never forgotten. We were on our way to get some shwarma from our parking spot on the hill. Once across the road, he grabbed my shoulder and looked deeply into my eyes and said, “Rachel. You must be very, very careful. Look both ways when crossing the street here or you will die.”
•           Do not take anything personally. The waiter may scream at you. The taxi driver may scream at you. You may ask for help, and the man on the street corner may scream at you…and then kindly point you in the right direction. Do not take anything personally – it is the Israeli way.
•           And since we’re on the topic of asking for directions, most people speak English if you need help. Just look lost (or sometimes don’t even bother and they’ll offer to help anyway). Two important tangential comments, however: 1) If they don’t actually know the directions, they’ll advise you confidently just the same. 2) Do not let makeshift tour guides follow you through the city, point out random facts, and ask you for money.
•           I think I’ve said this before, but it really could do to mention again unless you are a masochist and/or really love crowds: avoid the shuk (market) on a Friday. Think Gasparilla (for all you Florida folk), but with an emphasis on produce instead of beads...and I guess showing your boobs won't get you cheaper avocados. So, maybe not the best analogy, but in any case, we’ll go and get a nice slice of halva on Sunday afternoon to avoid the swarms of people 
•           The money here is make-believe. This is a survival tactic and I strongly encourage you to adopt this philosophy while you’re here (especially while I’m in tow ;)).
•           Most of the large explosions are celebratory firecrackers. The rest are better left under the same aforementioned assumption.
•           Drinking tea with a shop owner means you might have just bought yourself a new rug.
•           Watch out for the cat poop.
•            “Hakol yihieh beseder” – everything will be fine. “Eiffo sherutim?” – where’s the bathroom? What else do you need to know? 

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These are the posts I'm adding throughout our adventure, or that others are contributing

• Sooooo, precisely 4.5 hours after I thought my parents had landed, I came upon a very important life lesson in international travel: The international dateline. I have no idea where the screw up came about as every itinerary I've seen, sent by my very meticulous father, indicates their arrival today, May 15th, in year of our Lord 2014 (according to some, I guess). But alas, they are really coming tomorrow, May 16th, which makes me very sad as I a) do not get to see them for another 20 hours and b) purchased a significant number of chocolate croissants and savory pastries this morning, which will be stale by tomorrow. (Please note the subtextual lesson here: purchase fresh, hot biscuits. Always.) To be continued...