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...

Directions to the Church of Gethsemane on Maundy Thursday

For everyone who is concerned that technology is taking over the world, I would like to put forth the argument that Google maps cannot tell you like it is. Here is how Google Maps says you get to the Church of Gesthemane from my house.

But I'd like to offer up a slightly more accurate snapshot of the trek. I say snapshot because the stones are the same, resting there for centuries; but the smells and sentiments and travelers are as variant as the wind that carries them. 

Take a right out of the apartment building – not the quickest way, but we must factor in a prettier walk and the proximity to the Supersol for a late-night snack. Abandoning your hopes of acquiring peanut butter during Passover and paying too much for a bag of apricots, proceed down the hill then up the hill then down the hill past the mall and the light train to the Old City’s Damascus Gate. Pass your friendly neighborhood falafel man who remembers not only your preferences – no onions, extra spicy – but also your zodiac and the name of your first boyfriend. Walk firmly through the Muslim Quarter looking determined so as not to engage the men selling fabric and TV remotes. But do pause to wonder why on earth there are so many Haredi Jews (ultra-orthodox – big fuzzy hats) in the Muslim Quarter. Easter miracle of coexistence? – is suggested by one friend; We (Israelis) do it occasionally just to taunt – rationalizes another. Feel free to ponder, but you must acknowledge that there are far too many idiosyncrasies in this city you will never ever understand, and to try to do so shaves years off of your inner child. Speaking of inner child, maintain speed or slow for a small indulgence because the knafeh salesman is looking hopeful.

Finally, you’ve gone too far. It’s okay – don’t get exasperated. This happens no matter where you’re going and from whence you’ve come - it is part of the Old City vortex and luckily you left early to account for this (and of course by early we mean you left late as usual, anticipating that the rest of the world would be even later than you. And thus, the clock ticks more slowly in the Middle East.)

Stop to ask a group of young Muslim guys for directions. You must carefully follow their words as one tells you straight then left and the other tells you right then straight. Look cross-eyed and smile politely. Inevitably, they will switch from English to Hebrew, the latter of which you must feign understanding until you hear buzzwords that you recognize (i.e. Austrian Hospice! Right!) “Shukran” is thank you in Arabic. Huff back up the mild incline past the chanting nuns following a hefty cross along the Via Dolorosa and turn right at the massive gathering of Israeli soldiers, down the hill and out the gate to an intersection. Name of the road? Unclear – it’s printed in 3 languages and most likely a different interpretation and transliterated spelling for all 3, so it’s best just to know it by the view of the Church of Mary Magdalene outside of Lion’s Gate. Keep right and follow the pilgrims. You shall know you are in the right place by the incessant honking because no one thought to close the road whose name no one can remember. 

And once you adjust to the honking (we recommend thinking of it as celebratory…because you cannot change a culture with a death glare), look up at the Mount of Olives and the Sacred Garden and the space where Jesus hung out in his final hours (most likely playing Catch Phrase with his disciples). Look up at the worshippers’ candles lining the processional down the walking path to Mount Zion. Look up at the skins and robes of many colors, worn by hundreds singing the same chorus in a different tongue. Look up at the unity, brief as it may be; in this moment it is everything. You are here.