Do I REALLY look 72?

Week 1 - Thursday January 12 - Thursday January 19

We started the week at the grocery store. Of course. But first we stopped for a shakshuka breakfast at a tiny cafe on Hapalmach, which is the main street of our neighborhood. Then we went to the bank, where I used my new ATM card for the first time. What a thrill. The 600 shekels ($158) I withdrew didn't last very long, even tho we only bought a few things to tide us over till Sunday when we went to the shuk.

We also went out for dinner. We strolled over to Emek Refaim, which once upon a time was the happening street in Jerusalem. Over time it's quieted down. Several restaurants have closed, but a few have taken their places. We went to Foccacia, which from the name would suggest pizza and pasta. Instead it was a meat restaurant with a very varied menu. Sid had Thai noodles with beef, which was quite good except for the beef, which was tough and pretty much inedible. I had, of all things since in general I avoid them, a hamburger. But this being Israel it wasn't just any hamburger. It came with a slice of smoked goose breast, pineapple and a sweet sriracha sauce. Actually very good.

My jet lag hit on Thursday night. I couldn't fall asleep, read till at least 2AM, drifted in and out of sleep till 7 and got up because I couldn't get back into sleep. I wasn't up to much, so spent the day finishing unpacking and trying to figure out some of the quirks in the apartment. We went to Batsheva's for dinner, and since all of us were really exhausted, left there relatively early.

On Shabbat we went to Shira Hadasha, the egalitarian synagogue of, by and for Americans and other Anglos. It has changed over the years. Now the service (including the sermon and announcements) are only in Hebrew. I suppose they figured after all this time everyone should know Hebrew, but they certainly haven't retreated from egalitarianism.

On Saturday night we went to a lecture by Rabbi Beryl Wein; one of a series he's giving about Jerusalem street names. This week's street was Josef ben Mattityahu Ha'Cohen, more popularly known as Josephus Flavius. It was well researched, well done and fascinating. As it happens I'm currently reading a historical novel, Captive, which takes place at the same time and makes reference to many of the same names and places.

Sunday we went to the shuk, the famous produce market, which has become the place for dining and bars. As Israel slowly transitions to a 5 day work week, several of the stalls were closed. The good news is that it wasn't at all crowded, except at the really good felafel stand.  

Monday we started our trip for real. Enough shopping - time to engage our brains. Sid went to classes at Pardes, and I went to my women's class, which is one of the reasons I come here. Afterwards I went with my friend Bevie to Rimonim for lunch. As it happens, her sister was there as well having lunch with some friends. After lunch Bevie finally broke down and bought herself a smart phone. Lucky for her, one of her nephews works at a cell phone store, meaning she got a good price and an unlimited personal help line. The factoid about this particular nephew is that 40+ years ago Bevie and I took his dad and another one of Bevie's nephews to the circus, which they claim was a highlight of their childhood.

There is a relatively new custom (new to me at least) that's becoming quite popular here. Called a "hafrashat challah", it's a women-only event that takes place in private homes, synagogues or other public places. It's somewhat hard to explain without getting overly wordy, but it's about delving into the deep spiritual aspects of making challah. There's a speaker, naturally. And you actually make challah. We started with 2 kilos (4.5 pounds) of flour, and as we added each ingredient the speaker explained the symbolism: 3 spoons of salt for Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. 4 spoons of sugar for Sarah, Rivka, Rachel and Leah. 3 spoons of yeast which involves a play on the Hebrew word for yeast also being the Hebrew word for guard or protector. Etc. All this is a run up to arguably the most important aspect of challah making - separating an olive size piece of dough and putting it aside to be burned in the oven, in remembrance of the sacrificial system during Temple times. The act of separation has a blessing associated with it, as does everything in Judaism. It's a blessing that carries special weight because, like lighting candles to usher in Shabbat, it establishes a personal, private connection to the Creator of the Universe, and offers a few moments for women to speak directly to G-d. The 20 of us said the blessing and had our silent conversations. This isn't something you can do with your eyes open, and we stood with eyes closed and intense concentration. I did peek, however, and saw these women gently swaying back and forth with such focus and belief. It was one of those "you had to be there" moments, and it will stay with me for the rest of my life.

The other highlight this week was a talk by Caroline Glick, who is a brilliant analyst and thinker. She has a mile-long CV, including being on the Oslo negotiating team (and we know how well that went), she's an adviser to Netanyahu, was an officer in the IDF, has published several books, and writes a weekly column for the Jerusalem Post and Maariv (one of the Hebrew papers). The topic was the crisis in the American Jewish Community and she hit the nail right on the head. It will probably be on Youtube - definitely worth an hour of your time.

Dori will be in Jerusalem for Shabbat. We haven't seen her yet, and are very much looking forward to hearing about her life in Tel Aviv. 

So ... I took the light rail to the hafrashat challah. I tapped my transit card as I boarded and made my way to a seat. Because it's on the honor system there are frequent inspections. And we were inspected. I handed my card to the inspector and thought nothing of it until he said I didn't pay for the ride. I looked at him in disbelief and said of course I paid. We went back and forth, and he showed me his hand-held computer that said I hadn't paid. He asked for my identity card, which is standard procedure. Yes, the same identity card I used to vote 2 years ago and caused so much laughter because it's so old. Then he asked my age. I said that's not a polite question and he shouldn't be asking. He replied "we ask that kind of question". I told him to guess. He said 72. I was certain I mis-heard and asked him if he meant 62. No, he said, 72. I was pissed. Then he looked at my identity card and apologized for being off by a few years. Then he gave me a ticket. But he was so charming and sweet about it, explaining that he had no choice, describing the procedure for protesting the fine, and hoping that he hadn't hurt my feelings. Only in Israel. The first thing I did when I sat down again was to pull out a mirror to see if I saw the 72 year old that the inspector saw, and wondered what are the chances insurance will pay for a face lift.

Shabbat shalom from Jerusalem, the capitol of Israel, which will be recognized as such tomorrow.

Peggy and Sid