For Now, This Is My Part

My cousin Shula is a very busy woman.  She's in her late fifties, lives in a Northern suburb of Israel, raised three boys, the third of whom was recently inducted into the Israeli Marines. She works in computer systems analysis, as an advisor to large companies.

Shula has a large circle of friends and relatives and she makes it a priority to keep in touch and updated on a regular basis, which is one reason I've felt closer to her than most of my other relatives in Israel.   Shula is the one who hosted my friend and me on our free weekends during our ninth grade summer Israel experience.  Shula almost always picks my visiting parents up at the airport, even in the middle of the night, and drops them off at our house, miles out of her way.   Shula is not religious, does not identify with many aspects of religious observance, and does not keep Shabbat or a kosher home.  Yet her closest friend is a religious physician and mother of six who has been her neighbor for twenty years.  I have always felt comfortable in her house because she always makes an effort to make me feel comfortable, without it feeling like any effort at all.

Shula loves to keep in touch by email.  She prefers to keep it personal, but last year she felt compelled to start sending emails addressed to all of us -- her family and friends -- to keep us updated on the state of her husband, who was diagnosed with a relapse of melanoma that had spread to his brain.  Over time Shula's beautifully written group emails arrived with greater and greater  frequency, describing in detail their meetings with physicians, this expert and the next, changes in treatment, from chemotherapy to palliative radiation, to the latest drug therapy that would be extremely effective, in theory, but only if her husband's coordination improved enough to swallow it.  Last April, the day before Pesach (the Passover holiday), Shula and her sons returned home without their beloved husband and father, who was laid to rest during the week of Pesach, in a small cemetery near their home.

I understand it takes about 90 days for a human being to really digest and accept the loss of a loved one (see the footnote I wrote here).  It's now been about 130 since Shula lost her husband, and her mind has since turned to other losses as well.  With her permission, I'm including here a translation of her latest group email.

Hello Girlfriends,

Last Thursday I was with my friend N. in Kikar Rabin (Rabin Square, in central Tel Aviv), to "celebrate" / mark the birthday of Gilad Shalit.  There was a birthday cake on a chair, but the candles weren't lit... A number of good people spoke, Gilad's commanding officer, the head of the NPO Return Our Sons, Yuska Groff,who was once captive and is now a member of the NPO Awake at Night (that is to say, while we sleep, they have nightmares), and many others.

The evening's planners told us that for the past several weeks they have sat in the Square every night between 8 and 9 pm, calling for his return home.

The evening was moving, and especially sad.  It was sad because Gilad still isn't here, and we don't know where he is, and how... even were we to fully summon our powers of imagination we would not come close to understanding how his parents live with this.... it's awful.

It was also sad that so few people (around 300) turned up, and all the others just mention how terrible it is and cluck their tongues.

It is sad mainly because the night-by-night activities of these youth really don't move anyone.

We met a few more friends and thought that we -- mothers, grandmothers, aunts -- must shake people out of their complacency.  We thought about organizing a regular Friday evening presence outside the Prime Minister's house.

Every Friday, ten of us will station ourselves outside the Prime Minister's residence for two hours.  The plans aren't final, and we're open to additional suggestions and ideas.  The only thing that's clear is that we need to do something, immediately, before all of our captives return as "gestures" / "measures" / "intensifications" and all those other excuses.

So, if you also believe there's a place for action, and not just talk, we'll be meeting to analyze the situation and formulate a plan on Thursday, 4 September at 8 pm at Rabin Square on the corner of Ibn Givriol and King David streets.  Please pass this message on to anyone you feel is appropriate.  We'll be there, waiting...

Shula later told me she hesitated before sending me this letter, since she knows from experience how hard it is to be a working mother, without taking on all those extra activities.  I also wish I could do more here, but I'm realistic, and I believe that for the time being I have enough on my plate, doing "my part" in a different realm.   I also know there are many others out there who would love to take on a greater part in this critical fight.  And so, my friends, I'm passing Shula's message on to you.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Back to School

The school year in Israel starts on Monday.  After a decade of working in the school system, I've been having a very hard time feeling motivated to go back. 

It's not just that I work in a hospital, with very sick kids, and I hate seeing them and their families suffer.  And it's not just the heavy contrast between summer vacation, when our hospital school is no longer in session during August, and the intensity of the school year. 

Being a school system within a medical system, there is the added challenge of fitting into a system that runs 24/7, 365, when we have to follow the school calendar year and take our vacations all at once, just when the children need us most, over holidays and school vacations. 

The medical establishment does not fully understand the education model, and I hate some of the comments medical staff in other departments offer our teaching staff when we return to work every September.  Oh, how was your vacation?  they ask, in a tone that insinuates that we really didn't deserve one.  I am relieved that after many years, the staff of my department asks the question out of real interest.  They really care, and they understand all too well that when you're given a break from Pediatric Oncology, you take it. Even if that break makes it much harder to return afterwards.

 

And so we return, to all the things we missed, and now it is urgent, and they just won't wait: We introduce ourselves to all the new kids who were diagnosed over the summer, getting to know who they are, what they like, what they dislike.  What scares them, and what motivates them. What hurts them.  What their schools know about their illness, and whether their friends are in touch with them or not.  Whether they themselves want to learn more about their illness, or just pretend it isn't happening.  

We begin to re-establish a connection with all the kids we've already been working with throughout the school year, hearing how they spent their time over the summer.  Did they get to go home?  Did they have to suffer through an unidentified infection?  An unexpectedly long hospitalization?  A few days or weeks in the ICU?  Or did they get a break from it all and go to traveling abroad, or to summer camp, or just home for the first time in months.

And then there's the icy splash.  Hearing which kids are no longer with us.  That initial feeling of Well, it was expected, mixed with I just can't believe it.  Trying to get a few details out of the nursing staff, without expecting them to live through the pain of the news all over again.  Wondering whether to contact their parents, four weeks after the shiva. Going through their artwork, worksheets, photos.  Agonizing over feelings of relief torn through with sadness, anger, and bewilderment.  

After all these years, you might think I'd know how to go back in there.  But I don't.

Keep the Balance,

ALN

Let's Not Be Sorry

I direct your attention to Conversations in Klal's post (and my comment) regarding water urn safety.  I say some things are worth the extra expense, or go without.

Addendum, September 2:  Note that the Zomet Institute's Shabbat water urns (pictured here in the NY Times) do have latching lids, but still feature the free-flowing spout, located fairly low down on the urn.  One out of two is better than nothing, but not perfect.  Most of the models pictured look massive, and are therefore less likely to be pulled down by a small child.

Does anyone have connections there and can bring the safety issue of the spout to their attention?

Keep safe.

ALN

At Least I Can Explain Two Tin Cans and a String

This morning on the way to work I called my grandmother.  (I know, I know - chastise me later.  For the record, I used an earphone and dialed before pulling out of the driveway).   

My morning commute is one of the only times I can call her.  I'm usually on the road by quarter to seven in the morning  -- that's 8:45 pm Pacific, a relatively lively hour for her -- and none of my kids are around to do that thing kids are known to do as soon as Mommy gets on the phone, which is to appear out of nowhere with some sudden and exceedingly urgent concern in need of your immediate and total attention.

Grandma:  So, what did you think of the speech?  

Me:  (Speech. Speech?  What speech?...  Oh, THAT speech.)  Actually, Grandma, I had to miss the speech.  I have to be at work for a 7:30 meeting.  I'll catch it later, on the internet.  (to self:  Oops.  That last comment was completely useless).

G:  People are saying he sounded, well, very presidential.

Me:  Yeah, that would make sense, under the circumstances.

* * * *

Later I was reminded of a question I'd been meaning to ask Grandma during our mutual visit in Southern California;  namely, would she be interested in receiving a digital picture frame so she could receive updated pictures of the kids on a more regular basis.  Only I had no idea how to phrase the question.  I made a mental note of a couple of previous Grandma conversations my younger brother had recounted.

Grandma:  Did you also get copies of those photos that your Mom sent of [ALN] and the kids?

Younger Bro:  Yah, Grandma, she sent them directly to me by email.

G:  So you already hung them on your fridge?

YB:  No, Grandma, they're digital.  They're still on my computer, I haven't gotten them printed, so I can't hang them.

Grandma:  But I thought you just said she already sent them to you?

YB:  No, Grandma, they're --  (Never mind).  Yeah, I put them on my fridge.

* * * *

And that conversation doesn't begin to compete with this one, between Grandma, Younger Bro, and Sister-in-Law, while the latter two were showing Grandma some pictures on their laptop.

Younger Bro:  So, Grandma, what do you think?

G:  Yeah, that's nice.  Uh, what did you say this was called?

YB:  This is a photo browser.  It allows you to view photos, edit them, add text, run a slide show, or publish to the web.  (Grandma looks puzzled).

Sis-in-Law: (shaking her head at YB)  Grandma, this is a computer.

G:  (Face lights up)  Oh...  A computer.

Retrospectively, maybe the two of them should have borrowed my college roommate L's one-size-fits-all explanation of how these things work:  Magic.  Except that Engineer Bro and I grew up with Engineer Dad, who used to made us solve math problems by drawing on the napkins at the dinner table, and who's always insisted on understanding how things really work, by researching and preparing explanatory articles complete with illustrative diagrams.  So while "magic" sounds good, we know better than to buy that one.

* * * *

I remember hearing a Lubavitch concept: "If you know aleph, teach aleph,"  (i.e. teach as much as you know, and don't worry about the rest for now).  So here I was, driving the car, talking on the phone to the other side of the world (another nice piece of magic, wouldn't you say?), while my left- and right- brains were making a united attempt to translate into Grandma-ese an explanation of digital photography, the internet, and wi-fi technology, none of which (let's be honest) I really understand myself.  But I tried anyway.  I figure, at least she'll understand that I respect her enough to assume she might follow.

Our review of digital picture frames eventually came to a close with her concluding that it would be nice to have such a thing, but actually using it would be completely beyond her.  

I'll look into it anyway.  If it does work out and we end up buying her one, I only hope she won't try to hang it on her fridge.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Another Good Question (And Another)

Is it just us, or do other people's kids also save their million-dollar questions specifically for evening car rides, when we're already channeling whatever meager energy remains in our dragging systems toward focusing on the road?

This evening's car conversation, as follows:

Daughter (age 9):  Mommy, what happens when the world ends?

Me:   (to self)  Huh?!?   (out loud)  Can you explain what you mean by that?

Daughter:  Well, we live, and then life comes to an end, so I figured that the world is alive now, and then it will also come to an end.  But not right away -- only in a long time.

Me:  Actually, that's pretty much what's going to happen.  The sun will eventually get too hot for life in our world to survive, only it'll take thousands of years.  But how did you know that?  Did you hear it from someone?

Daughter:  I just thought about it.

* * * *

Maybe the philosophers are right;  if we just follow our thoughts through to their logical conclusions, everything will fall into place.  On the other hand, maybe I should be more careful talking about work stuff and mortality issues when my kids are within hearing range.

The conversation continued with my brief explanation of global warming, which encouraged my daughter to give me a complete run-down of what she'd learned in science class regarding the relationship between driving cars, cutting down trees, CO2 build-up, the diminishing ozone layer, ultraviolet light infiltration, and skin damage.  

I'm not sure how much of what she said was by rote, and how much she really understood, but I felt a bit under-equipped for lengthy technical explanations.  It was getting late and The Fear of Limited Energy had long since fulfilled its own prophecy.  I did try to help her understand that the issue is complicated, and the answers are not always obvious or clear-cut.  (Take the case of artificial turf -- who woulda thunk it?)  For example, I told her, the recycling of all paper products is not necessarily a perfect solution to the deforestation problem, if you take into account water usage and bleach runoff.  She didn't quite buy that, but I'm assuming we have some time until the abstract thinking finally kicks in, hopefully within the next decade or two.

Then there's always the danger of answering your children's questions before taking the time to fully understand what they're really asking.  This gem of a conversation took place a few months ago:

Daughter (age 6):  Mommy, is it that girls aren't allowed to marry other girls, or do they just not want to?

Me (to self):  Well, that depends on which state you're in... in California everyone's pretty much used to it.   No, WAIT.   What's she really asking?

Me (out loud):  Why are you asking, sweetie?

Daughter:  Because I really want to get married to A.  Are we allowed?

(Note to the reader:  A, of course, is her best friend, also age 6, who lives across the street and, to my tempered chagrin, just taught her how to climb a doorframe).

Me:   Well I don't think you and A. really need to get married, since you practically live at one another's houses as it is.  Anyway, you're already living with us, for free.  If you marry A., you'll have to pay rent on an apartment or something.

Daughter:  But I really love her...

* * * *

I guess the two of them could always move to California.

Keep the balance,

ALN

The Millennials (and Their Helicopter Parents)

Interesting how the blogosphere reaches many of the same issues from so many different viewpoints. I've been meaning to post on this one for awhile, and others' recent material was enough of an incentive to get to it now.

Last month my Dad was fortunate to attend a talk by lawyer and business advisor Mary Crane. These days, Ms. Crane is famous for her lectures to business leaders and general audiences on the topics of style differences, business ethics, gender gaps and generation gaps in the workforce. Regarding the last, she explains why the twenty-somethings now entering the workforce ("Gen Y," or "Millennials") are the way they are, and how their behavior and attitudes are often at odds with those of the previous generations, namely,

"Traditionalists (born before 1946),

Boomers (born between 1946 and 1962), [and]

Gen X (born between 1962 and 1982)..."

Before reading on, I highly recommend this recent 60 Minutes feature. If you only have a few minutes, listen to the opening piece, in which Morley Safer nicely summarizes the phenomenon. He continues by interviewing business executive and Gen Y expert Marian Saltzman, who notes that there are two types of Millennials: those who work hard, and those who are basically spoiled brats. Her advice on how to work with them:

You can't be harsh. You cannot tell them you're disappointed in them. You can't really ask them to live and breathe the company, because they're living and breathing themselves and that keeps them very busy.

Later, Mary Crane is shown giving a training seminar to Millennials entering the workforce, on the subject of workplace basics -- and I mean basic basics, like how to eat with a knife and fork. In her analysis,

You now have a generation coming into the workplace that has grown up with the expectation that they will automatically win, and they'll always be rewarded, even for just showing up.

...The Boomers [are] going to have to start focusing more on coaching rather than bossing. If you tell [the Millennium] generation in particular, You gotta do this, you gotta do this, they truly will walk, and every major company knows this is the future.

(On a personal note, I was once "privileged" to have a spoiled Millennial on my staff, and I can attest that she made life miserable for me, and for many of her colleagues. She regarded work orders as mere suggestions, which she accepted or rejected at will. She regularly blamed others for her own errors, and, yes, acted as though she deserved a medal just for showing up, all while whining about what a sensitive soul she was. At the end of the year she was told she was being transferred to a different department, and she refused, quitting her job instead. Good riddance).

One of the reasons the Millennials can get away with their behavior is that they know that there are more job positions than candidates. They've learned quickly that they don't face a lot of competition, so why work too hard?

The culprit? WSJ columnist Jeffrey Zaslow tells us, no-holds-barred: Mister Rogers. When you read Zaslow's piece (highly recommended), it starts to make a lot of sense. Sort of.

The real culprit? (Breathe. This is the hard part). It's us. The parents of Gen Y. (Ok, not me in particular -- I'm a Gen X, in the midst of mucking up Gen Z. But for the moment, I'll join you Boomers in solidarity). In the words of finance professor Don Chance, quoted in Zaslow's column, it's not Fred Rogers per se, but rather him as a "representative of a culture of excessive doting." Our own doting, on our own kids. Professor Chance compares his Asian-born students with their American counterparts. The former see a lower grade as an incentive to improve in their studies, while the latter "hit you up for an A because they came to class and feel they worked hard."

Apparently it's no longer unusual for parents to call the professors and demand a better grade for their kids. The grade-school version of this is known as helicopter parenting: the parents who hover over their child correcting every homework error; who drop everything to run a forgotten lunch bag over to school; who call the teacher demanding perfect test scores for their precious child. And the trend continues into the workforce, with Boomer parents calling their children's bosses to demand a raise.

Returning to our humble jblogosphere, many have recently referred to a shidduch (matchmaking-based dating) process tainted by hollow standards, an over-emphasis on family reputation, and generally unrealistic expectations. Many threads have begun to expose, denounce and tackle this problem, so prevalent within the religious community, but for the moment I'll direct you only to one, Conversations in Klal, who offers a Boomer-generation comparison.

Here's where my generation differs greatly from today's generation: we knew that our paper dolls were playthings and nothing more than that. We had no expectations that our paper creations were suddenly going to appear in front of us in the flesh. We knew that the make believe worlds we created for our dolls were just that: make believe.

While I don't particularly relate to the paper doll imagery (Gen X was more of a Barbie generation), her point is clear: If you want to find a real relationship, get hold of some realistic expectations.

That sounds about right, but it leaves me with a question: Where did this generation's expectations come from?

It could be that dating was a lot more fun in the Sixties, and that it has led to more solid, happier marriages. It very well could be that those realistic expectations prior to marriage, provided a solid base for realistic expectations throughout the marriage. But we have no way of knowing if that explain a higher divorce rate today, because the reality is complicated. For example, to really understand why more Boomers stayed married, we'd have to factor in the idea that for Gen X, divorce is far more socially acceptable than it was a generation ago, even in the religious world. Forty years ago, unless you were a Hollywood couple, you just put up with a painful or abusive marriage. Divorce was shunned, and generally illegal. My generation doesn't recognize a world without "no-fault" divorce. Over the past decade or two, my parents' generation has come to accept -- and sometimes embrace -- this new social reality, and back out of miserable marriages as well.

I believe there's a direct connection between the "Millennials in the workforce" issue, and our society's dating problems, and I think we have a lot to learn from the business world, at least in terms of how we frame the problem. If we're really going to tackle this, we'll need to help Gen Y-er's come to terms with their expectations of themselves and of others, in all facets of their lives. But first, we'll have to come to terms with our own expectations -- realistic and otherwise -- of them.

I would love to be able to offer more concrete solutions, and if you have any, please share them. Meanwhile, at least we've begun to define the problem, the first step toward determining the answers.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Absurdity in Equal Measures

By now it's common knowledge.  When a newer oleh (immigrant to Israel) has had an especially trying experience in some government office, or been yelled at on the street for some previously-unremarkable social infraction, or suffering from sweaty hair and overheated body syndrome, we all know what happens next.  The new oleh comes home fuming and ranting.

In [insert name of Old Country here] we know better; or 

No one ever treated me like that in [the Old Country]; or

I can't believe this country!  They are so [fill in the blank: old fashioned /stupid / obnoxious / rude].

After being here for awhile, we become so much smarter.  We learn to accept that:

a.)  Hey, a lot of things are different here.  They just are.  (We even learn to like it).

b.)  There exists Absurdity in Equal Measures, all over the world.  Even in the Old Country.

Let's begin by directing our attention to a local dilemma.  Apparently, the Minhal MiKarka'ay Yisrael (Israel Land Administration) is on the brink of bringing a "deviant usage charge" upon those living in kibbutzim and moshavim, who are so bold as to have installed a solar energy collector on the roof (I'm still searching for an English-language reference;  meanwhile, check here for a Hebrew one).  That, by the way, includes almost everyone in Israel who lives in a house. Never mind that solar power is the new black, and that the government will soon offer financial incentives to those who sell their solar-acquired electricity back to the grid. Never mind that there is a government initiative in the works, to cover local bodies of water with solar panels.  Hey, Minhal, you gonna charge us for that, too?

So here we sit, facing a energy crisis of unknown proportions while immersed in the muck of our own bureaucratic wackiness.  Yet we in Israel would be wise to follow the tragi-comedy playing itself out in Southern California over the issue of artificial lawns. According to the L.A. Times, it seems that Jean Orban of Garden Grove, CA, thought she was doing the smart and responsible thing by replacing her thirsty lawn with artificial turf.

Alas, Garden Grove doesn’t share Orban’s affection for her fake lawn. As she soon discovered, the city bans artificial turf. Although the city has yet to take any action against her, others who installed the lawns said they were warned that they will be fined.

And that regulation puts the city at odds with the Orange County Municipal Water District, which offers rebates to those who install faux grass.

So instead of receiving her expected rebate, Ms. Orban was refused the money and found herself at odds with a 1992 city law "banning simulated greenery."  At first glance, this looks like a no-brainer:  

Less grass = less water usage = benefits for the individual and the world.  

Apparently it's not so cut-and-dry (no pun intended).  The LA Times article was followed by a myriad of letters, op-ed pieces and, of course, blog posts, expounding the many reasons why artificial turf is no instant ecological freebie.  Patt Morrison's column, excerpted below, is among my favorites:

Cities are already miserable hot spots. Every inch that we pave over, even with plastic grass, creates a patch of unnatural heat. The virtue of a grass lawn -- however thirsty -- is that it is a living system that helps the land keep its cool. It also allows what rain we do get to make its way into the soil, and the water table, not into the storm drains... when the air temperature hits 80 degrees, it can be 160 or 170 degrees on the turf. Even when it's only 50 degrees out, direct sun can heat fake grass to 150 degrees. Sounds like you might as well tell your kids to go outside and play on a griddle.

This heat trap effect, she goes on to explain, might end up costing you more energy and money in increased A/C demands on your now-overheating house.  And then there's that awkward question of what to do in ten or twenty years when the lawn needs replacing and becomes just another (exceptionally large) piece of plastic weighing down the landfill.

Balancing out this opinion is that of a home-improvement blog by Kathy Price-Robinson, who writes,

...on the plus side, the material is made from recycled plastic and held in place by recycled tire "crumbs." A two-stroke engine, the kind in lawn mowers, creates significantly more pollution than a car (since there is no catalytic converter), so with synthetic turf, that carbon load is eliminated.

You're not alone if you now have no idea which side to take in the artificial turf wars.  In the same light, I would like to remain open-minded and assume that our Minhal is not just in it for the money... but sometimes, I fear, an absurdity is just an absurdity.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Speaking of Jet Lag...

...is it possible that I just got lost on the jblogosphere for THREE HOURS?  Those of you with trackback, just combine all my comments and pretend it was a 200-line, ranting, eclectic post.  

The school year's starting soon, so no more of that.

Thanks to all for the many conference updates.  I hope not to be trapped in midair for next year's event.

How true to form: 200 Jewish bloggers, four thousand opinions.  You've all heard the one about the guy trapped on the desert island who fumbles together his own laptop with wireless internet.  Oh, and that's the blog I would never read...   

As for opinions, I agree whole-heartedly with those who encouraged balanced reporting and constructive criticism.  Come now, not everyone could be on the panel the first time around. But we'll always have jblogosphere.   

Anyway, I understand that next year, there'll be waffles...

Keep the balance,

ALN

Missed Connection, Reconnection

We got back to Israel safely, bodies exhausted, luggage intact.  I only wish I could say the same for my head, but the J-L word has been rearing it's ugly head.  I've now tried the stay-up-really-late-method, the take-a-nap method, the don't-take-a-nap method, the no-caffeine, no-alcohol diet, the caffeine -and-alcohol diet... it all sort of comes down to "Damn!  Here I am, awake  between 2 and 5 a.m. yet again."*  Last night, Shabbat, was the worst,  -- all the lights were out (no reading) and using the computer was out of the question (no blogging... all those posts, composed in my head, the permanently lost in memory wasteland / oblivion).  Sometimes I envy those locals (read:  EU members) whose flight back to The Old Country costs them only six hours of their lives, plus waiting time, and possibly a couple of time zones.   I know, I know, it could be worse;  Australians must envy everyone.

(A recent conversation companion suggested that the lengthy travel time might serve a higher purpose, giving our minds and bodies time to readjust to the new environment.  I'm not sure what that means, since I'm assuming that if not for the jet-lag, my adjustment time would near zero, even accounting for other adaptations). 

Straight off the plane, the white light is blinding.  The abrupt weather transformation -- from California balmy to Middle East heat bake -- shocks my system with an immediate, unforgiving reminder that the sun is stronger here.  Like the emotional charge of everyday interactions, this heat is a force to be reckoned with, a consistent reminder to budget your energy and appreciate the basics:  Clean water, the roof over your head, a cool evening breeze.  

For the first few days following our return our house always seems so small and dusty, but that's only because, in comparison, my parents' house is enormous and several thousand miles from the Sahara.  After a few days our house goes back to looking its normal self (reasonably large and dusty).  

We visit the Old Country every two or three years, and each time it feels more like a foreign country.   Yes, my English is still fluent (though some would claim otherwise), and I remembered to say Have a nice day and Nice to meet you like I really mean it.  But the differences inevitably reared their heads. I could still think in inches, but no longer in pounds.  In the supermarket, the endless selection of every category of product was truly overwhelming.   Parking lots became their own sprawling world, filled with superfluous SUV's, and the twelve-lane freeway where I'd learned to drive as a teenager had somehow transformed itself into a massive, threatening behemoth.

I came to Israel as a college student, unattached and uncommitted to any particular person, child, job or goal beyond trying to find a place to live, finish my degree, learn Hebrew.  Within a year or two those goals expanded to include finding a beit knesset, acquiring job skills, searching for a spouse... and then, building a home, having children, developing a career and joining a community.  Every one of these steps furthered my integration into this life and this society, even as it increased the barrier -- without my noticing -- between this life and my old life.   On this trip, I began to understand that while I grew up in California, I actually became an adult in Israel.  Marriage, motherhood, career, community -- all of these seminal moments happened in Israel, which means that my integration of these experiences also happened in Israel.  

By living so far away, I am also keenly aware of what I am missing, and causing others to miss.  My grandmother finally has three great-grandchildren -- who might as well be a million miles away.  Was this trip our last chance to see her?  I really, really hope not.  My Mom savors every long-distance telephone call, but nothing compares to helping her grandchildren practice their swimming in the neighborhood pool.  I can't remember a visit when my Dad hasn't "threatened" to kidnap one of the kids, so he won't have to wait another two years to see her.  

My good friend Q asked, as she always does when I return, Do you ever feel the urge to stay there?   No, I don't, even though coming home means coming back to the regular routine.  Gearing the kids up for a new school year.  A less-than enthusiastic return to the stresses of work.  Grocery shopping and carpool schedules.  Trips to the doctor, the dentist, the veterinarian.  Household repairs and reorganizations.  A fish tank in need of scrubbing and disinfecting.  A pile of laundry that dares to reach the ceiling after three days.  Dust.  Everywhere.  I know all too well that for me, "California" now means "vacation."  Were to we live there, I would still have all of the above and more, that is, all the ingredients of a regular life.  

But just in case I'd ever forget where home is, my kids wouldn't hesitate to remind me.  From the moment we left Israel, they struggled with the separation from their friends.  For four weeks they begged me to find them someone to play with;  even our three-year-old exchanged email photos to his nursery school girlfriend.  Driving home from the airport, the kids were barely out of the car and they were already asking, pleading to call their friends, invite them over, visit their houses.  Seeing my neighbors on Friday evening felt like a real home-coming, my neighbors sitting in the Beit Knesset, welcoming Shabbat, while the little kids ran around in the park.  They all looked so beautiful.

I love coming home. 

Keep the balance,

ALN

_____

* Note the time-stamp.  And yes, that's Israel time.

Landing on Time

I feel compelled to balance out our recent flight disappointments with a top-ten list reviewing our own home-grown, sardine-class service.  (Anyway, I'm way too stoned with jet-lag to accomplish much else here for the moment).

It's all been done before;  nonetheless, allow me to present my 

Top Ten Reasons to Fly El-Al:

10.  Flight attendants who are truly courteous, helpful, and good with kids (remember the old days?).

 9.  Choice of meals among many:  kosher, super-kosher, kosher vegan, kosher fish, kosher kiddie meal, etc. etc.

 8.  Those new 777's with the personal seat-back MP4 systems, featuring on-demand movies, music, games, and the latest Israeli TV shows.

 7.  You kids can scream and kick all they want -- someone else's will always drown them out.

 6.  Snacks and drinks available in the back, all hours of the day and night (or is that night and day?).

 5.  Our guys are in charge of security.

 4.  Tfilat haDerech* on page one of the in-flight magazine.

 3.  Directional arrow up on the screen points toward Jerusalem throughout the flight -- no guessing where to aim your prayers.

 2.  Lost luggage now a rarity due to the strict security tracking system.

And most importantly, the number one reason to fly El-Al:

 1.  You'll feel like you've come home, long before reaching TLV.

I know, there are always a few snags in the system, but like so many other things, given a choice, I choose the Israeli option.

Keep the balance,

ALN

_____

* The traveler's prayer, said before long or especially dangerous journeys.

We Are So Excited!!

One City's Hospitality

(Been out of the blogosphere a few days due to travel, illness;  sorry about the post gap. Meanwhile I've been collecting (that is, scribbling on every spare scrap) so much blog fodder I feel like I've been gone a month.  Primary observation?  I'm happy to report that the world is still a fascinating place).

We were in San Diego for a few days, entirely by accident.   (Long story;  let's just say that our flight to see family in Seattle was cancelled -- twice -- and JetBlue airlines has lost all credibility with me).  Paying for the vacation we didn't take -- all those missed reservations in Seattle -- kind of ate into the budget, so our time in San Diego felt very much like a return to student days:  bare-bones motel, backpacks and picnic lunches, public transportation.  Not an unwelcome change, really.  

I hadn't been to San Diego since high school, and even then, tended to stick within the physical and social confines of the Orthodox Jewish Community.  I have fond memories of a friendly, welcoming community of families who graciously opened their homes to host us young people for Shabbat.

This time around, we met an entirely different community, gracious hosts in their own right.  

As we made our way through the city, the amazingly thorough public transportation system* revealed itself to be a vast social conduit of homeless and semi-homeless individuals who spend their days on the streets, buses and trolleys that flow through downtown, Old Town, and into the coastal region.  Some of these people wear identity cards around their necks.  A large number are veterans.  Some are more comfortable starting their day with a drink, and some really know how to keep up their end of the conversation, no matter who's listening. 

That Guy I Married is a magnet for the down-and-out.  I already knew this, from the disproportionate number of people who ask him for hand-outs when he walks down the streets of Jerusalem.  In San Diego, apparently, some similar, unspoken power was at work, encouraging total strangers to include us in their conversations.  Y'all Jewish? one dark-skinned, exceedingly loquacious man yelled from across the airport bus.  I knew it, 'cause of that beanie you'all's wearin'.  

We had just arrived in the city, and his forthright question made me ill at ease.  Still, there was no looking the other way.  He was talking to us.   

Me:  Yeah, we are.  But we don't call it a beanie.  It's a kippah.  

Loquacious Man:  Kippah.  Yeah, I knew that!

Later that afternoon, our flight cancelled, we walked from the airport, along the bay's shore, past the marine base, the yacht clubs, and a myriad of middle-end hotel chains, until we reached a small, privately-owned motel.   A few minutes' drive down a main road would have brought us to some of the wealthier neighborhoods of the city.

The next morning, from our spare but spotless room, I spotted our elderly male neighbor, wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, throw some laundry over the balcony into a downstairs bin, then pass by our window and make several unmistakeable attempts to peer inside.  He startled and backed away when he caught sight of me standing inside, almost within reach, but moved on to peer into the open doorway of an adjoining room.  

I was completely creeped out.  We were supposed to be staying there a second night, but at that moment I wanted to bolt without looking back.  Then I stopped to think.

Older man, alone in a cheap motel.  Wandering in pajamas, peering into doorways, yet memorized the laundry schedule.  Seems he's been here awhile, yet only a person lacking a better option would opt for an extended stay.  

Down in the motel courtyard, I poured myself a cup of coffee and ran into the motel owner.  Is everything alright?  he asked with a genuine expression of concern.

Me:  Everything's fine, for the most part, but I was just wondering if you could give me some advice about the older gentleman staying across from us who keeps staring into our room.

Owner:  Older man?... Oh, I'm very sorry.  That's Mr. Sherman.  Mr. Sherman has been a guest of ours for two years.  He's completely harmless.      

Me:  If you could just suggest to him that ladies prefer not to have a gentleman staring at them, I'd really appreciate it.

Owner:  Of course, I'm very sorry about that.  I'll have a word with him, right away.

Half an hour later, the motel owner has spoken with Mr. Sherman, and everything is cleared up.  We finish our breakfast and head down the block to the nearest bus stop, where a 40-ish man is finishing off a McDonald's breakfast sandwich and a 16-ounce can of beer, still wrapped in its brown paper bag.  He looks at me a bit sheepishly.  Bon apettit, I offer.  Thanks, he says, and after a minute, You tourists?  Where are you from, Italy?  I thought maybe because of the "bon appetit."

Me:  No, We're from Israel, actually.  Where are you from?

Breakfasting man:  Ahh, Israel.  I thought so, or maybe New York.    I'm from around here, local.  (Looks down at his shirt, brushes the crumbs off, embarrassed).  Oh, I always mess up my shirt.

Me:  Don't worry, me too.   Just ask my husband.  Nice to meet you.  The bus pulls up and as we try to pay the fare, the driver covers the automatic till with one hand and waves us on impatiently with the other.

Breakfasting man:  Don't worry about it, that driver never collects

This leaves our imaginations running wild, as we settle into our seats, wondering just how the driver explains his empty till to the transit authority at the end of the day.   Do they not bother to check?  Is he nearing retirement and a pretty good guy so they just let it slide?  Is it some unannounced "free second Tuesday of the month" policy?

Breakfasting man:  Now tell me, where do you need to get to?

With his guidance, we make it to the trolley, where an exceedingly shy man, arms and legs folded inward, moon-sized glasses over downcast eyes, insists on sitting within view so he can guide us off the trolley at the right stop.   We thank him for his help.  I'm glad to help.  I travel a lot and it's always nice when someone helps me out.  Be sure to stop at the lobby to that hotel on your way to the bus stop, he adds. It's beautiful, and world famous. 

The last leg of our journey into the park, city bus line no. 7, brings with it yet another friendly tour guide, an African-American gentleman in his sixties, eager for conversation with anyone who will listen.  His eyes settle on us.  You're tourists?  Of course I'll help you.  Where you tryin' to get to?  He insists on getting off with us and walking us into the park, stopping to point out every museum along the way.  I'm just on my way to the veteran's services.  Nice people.  You know, I served seven years, Vietnam, then I found G-d, and I'm a new man.  

Me:  Didn't we already pass the veteran's center?

Him:  You're new here, right?  The vet center's down that way, he tells me knowingly, pointing ahead.  If you don't know, you shouldn't say.  Excellent point.  He continues to tell us about his children, now grown, and we tell him about ours.  He insists on accompanying us all the way through to the other side of the park, so we won't miss locating the free park shuttle.

Later bus rides bring new introductions and sometimes, new guides as well.  Sometimes we just sit back and observe, as yet another restless rider boards the bus and falls into intense conversation with himself, another passenger, or most typically, the bus driver.  The driver usually expects, and often invites, these conversations, which might include discourse over a mutually familiar soul who also wanders the city, day in and day out.

Any unfamiliar city can feel unsafe and unwelcoming, all the more so when so many of the people around appear to be transient or lost.  What a misleading impression.   As tourists, we were the transients, unfamiliar with the system, and likely to lose our way at any time.  The people around us were home, even if their daytime homes were park benches and bus lines, and their nighttime homes a veterans' center or public park.   

I can't say I felt safe every moment, and there were times and places when I was on high alert.   Still,  I learned to trust people who, until this visit, I might never have made an effort to meet, let alone guide me through an unfamiliar city.

Keep the balance,

ALN

_____

* In San Diego you really can get almost anywhere, for a reasonable price, via public transportation.   Sometimes it seems like they've thought of everything.  Most of the buses we saw have fold-down bicycle racks above their front bumpers, and an electric wheelchair lift stowed under the first step of the forward door lets those with limited motion ride the bus without a problem.  The seats and floors are clean, and the drivers we encountered were helpful and patient.  Some of the buses even run on "clean gas" instead of gasoline.  I'm sold...