Prague Reflections III: The Baths of West Bohemia

One of the main reasons Toby and I took our expedition to the Czech Republic was to leave Prague and take a motor tour around western Bohemia, specifically to visit some of the many towns that boast thermal springs and medicinal baths. A number of the towns that dot the landscape of what were once crownlands of the Habsburg Empire (later Austro-Hungarian Empire) are the creation of the 18th and 19th centuries, and exist solely because of their hot springs. (One particularly bizarre, if somewhat sad tale for dog lovers, was that the Habsburg emperor Charles IV discovered the springs at Karlovy Vary [Karlsbad -- "Charles' Bath"], the best known of these baths, when one of his hunting dogs was sniffing around the woods and fell in to one of the springs. With water running at around 80 degrees C after it has been piped through the plumbing to drink - thus it is much hotter at its source - I imagine the dog was stewed).

What interests me is that fact that these springs and the towns that were built up around them became the main locus of Central European tourism for a great portion of the period that I study. There are a few reasons for this. The first is one of health: the baths were (and still are, I would learn) regarded as a legitimate cures for any number of ailments. People suffering from chronic illness -- probably some of the most common including things like TB, gout, cardio-vascular illnesses -- all of those things that we are able to treat so effectively today with modern medicine would come to the spas, often for extended periods, often many times over their adult lives. (It is sometimes hard to imagine just how central illness was to everyday life in a time before antibiotics and other 20th century innovations.)

As time went on and a more robust middle class developed, and along with it things we take for granted like disposable income and leisure time, the spas became some of the first major tourist/resort destinations. By the time we reach my period of interest, the fin-de-siecle period (around 1890 until the First World War), these spas had become perhaps the most common vacation destinations for anyone who had a bit of money set aside, and hotels and spas catered to income levels from the low to moderate middle class all the way to the aristocracy. In towns like Karlovy Vary famous personalities of all types, from Karl Marx to the Tsar of Russia, from Beethoven to Chopin, visited at various times to "take the waters." They were particularly popular among the increasingly middle-class Jews of Central Europe (who, in the darker side of the spa culture, were frequently caricatured in an entire genre of anti-Semitic spa-town postcards, many of which can still be purchased online today through specialty collectors) -- this is the reason for my specific interest, as I hope a chapter of my next book will illustrate.

The two towns Toby and I visited were perhaps the most famous two in Western Bohemia, Karlsbad and Marianbad (Kalovy Vary and Marianske Lazne). The former I've already discussed, the later, Karlsbad's smaller, but more refined sister is perhaps best known to modern ears (or at least lovers of avant-garde French cinema) as the location of "Last Year at Marianbad," (L'Année dernière à Marienbad) the surreal early '60s movie by Allain Robbe-Grillet and Alain Resnais.

Both towns became significant spa destinations in the 18th century, but the height of their popularity was the second half of the 19th until the First World War. In their heyday, tens and even hundreds of thousands of visitors would descend on these towns in the tourist season.

The setting that visitors would encounter was bucolic and semi-rural, with the town centers featuring massive ornate colonades (usually late 19th century neo-Baroque; in the case of Karlovy Vary, some of them designed by Fellner and Helmer ) that provided the setting for the main activity: walking around and drinking hot water with a heavy mineral content that naturally surfaced from the hot mineral springs beneath. To facilitate the drinking, a special type of cup (called a "becher," supposedly after the Becher family of pharmacists-cum-distillers who created Becherovka, the ubiquitous west Bohemian spirit in the tall green bottles). The cup is ceramic with a hollow handle running from the bottom of the cup up, through which one sucks the mineral water (see picture of Toby above).

Around these colonades are dozens of hotels, many of them featuring their own spa treatments, most of them built during the post-Ausgleich (post-1867) pre-war period. In Marianbad, simply walking from the spa complexes down the hill gives one a sense of the social stratification. The grander, fantastic hotels are near the top of the hill, closest to the waters and the grand Lazni (spa buildings - see picture of the Nove Lazne above). Continuing down the hill, all along the right-hand side of the main street (Hlavni Trida) are smaller, botique-y hotels that become more and more middle class.

The tourist diversions in both towns included theater (in Karlovy Vary, the theater was designed by Fellner and Helmer) and casinos. But the main activity of these towns was quite simple: promenading around the colonades and parks, stopping at the many little spigots -- some of them ornately decorated (see picture) found everywhere around the springs -- to fill up your becher and drink. It was a place to see and be seen, where health care became a pretext for socializing and traveling.

The waters themselves are, as I mentioned, heavily metallic. In Marianske Lazne, they actually had a pleasant taste (to me at least), a more mild mineral flavor, kind of like warmed-up seltzer. In Karlovy Vary, the waters had a much, much stronger flavor. From what I could tell, they probably have a heavy iron content, as the first flavor that popped into my head when I drank was that it tasted like blood. According to some sources, it was recommended to patients at times that they consume as much as 5 litres per day of the waters -- but I can't imagine doing that was very good for you.

As I mentioned before, these towns were very popular sights for Jewish tourism specifically. My theory is that this had nothing to do with any particular attachment by Jews to spas, but rather that they were the destinations that epitomized middle class style, and Jews over the course of the late 19th century entered the growing urban middle class in numbers far disproportionate to other ethnic populations. As I mentioned, an entire, rather disturbing, genre of postcards quite popular at these places featured rabidly anti-Semitic stereotypes. The postcards were ubiquitous indicating how popular they were as souveniers (and still seem to be: the postcard shown here, with the caption "Gruss aus Karlsbad" -- Greetings from Karlsbad -- I took from an on-line catalog of anti-Semitic postcards from a mainstream stamp and postcard collecting website -- http://www.stampcircuit.com/).

But whatever that world was, it has been totally effaced. In Marianske Lazne the only surviving indication of any Jewish presence is a stone marker in the park on the main Hlavni Trida. The marker is a monument to the synagogue that once stood in the city -- a monumental 19th century neo-Moorish building. I didn't realize until I crossed the street to look at it that, if you turned around, there was a large gap and vacant lot among what was otherwise an unbroken line of hotels and shops. It dawned on me that this lot was in fact the site of the shul -- the monument across the street, I guess, was put up to be more visible to passers by. The monument contains an image of the facade of the shul, beneath which is written first a verse from Tehillim (Psalms 118 -- לא אמות כי אחיה ואספר מעשי יה -- I shall not die but live to tell the works of God) and a platitude in Czech and German -- "Na pamet Marianskolazenskych Zidovskych Obcanu a synagogy postavene roku 1884, vypalene v noci za pogromu 9-10.11.1938 -- Nikdy nezapomine jme!"/"Zur erinnerung an die juedischen Buerger von Marienbad und die im Jahre 1884 Erbaute und in der Pogromnacht 9/10.11.1938 niedergebrannte Synagoge -- Vergessen wir nie!" (In memory of the Jewish citizens of Marianbad and the synagogue built in 1884 and destroyed by fire in the pogrom night [i.e., Kristallnacht] of November 9-10 1938 -- We do not forget!).

I frankly think the empty lot says a lot more than the stone.

Toby's response was very interesting. He really wanted to dig down into the snow to find the ground on the vacant lot (there was about 6 inches of packed snow -- with more falling constantly). I think he was hoping that he might find the floor of the building or something...but of course (as he found out), it's just dirt.

Nowadays, the towns are once again hopping after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Kalovy Vary is the most surprising: it has become almost entirely Russian. I don't know the figures or the details, but from a casual observation, the tourist heart of the city is oriented firmly east. At almost every hotel and spa, Russian was the second (after Czech) if not the first language of menus and rates. Several buildings, many of them either old buildings that were being remodeled and subdivided into holiday apartments, had signs advertising the units exclusively in Russian.

I could not help but be struck by the irony. Not 20 years ago, the Soviets were regarded as brutal colonizers, occupying the country and imposing near-martial law after the protests of '68. They left in 1989...but now their successors are, arguably, more influential (in terms of the tourist economy) than ever.

Prague Reflections 2: Jews and the lack thereof

Of course, as a Jewish historian the main goal of this trip was to once again try and make sense of the locations I visited as the loci of significant, modernizing Jewish populations at the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th century. In so doing, it is impossible to avoid encountering the ways in which the small remnant -- both of people and of sites -- as they exist today. I have to admit, this encounter gave me a great deal more to think about that I expected.

The Jewish world of Prague, it goes without saying, is so dimished as to not even qualify as a pale reflection (or whatever cliche you like) of what once was. A city that boasted one of the oldest continuous Jewish settlements in Europe (although, if you want to be technical about it, it was interrupted very briefly in 1744 -- thanks for blowing the perfect game, Maria Theresa!), Jewish Prague is as old, and arguably older, than the idea of Prague as a municipal center itself. It is certainly older than this comparatively recent phenomenon known as a Czech national identity. But so it goes everywhere...this is not intended to be a comparative claim polemic.

Sufficed to say, the Jewish world of Prague -- and indeed of the Czech Lands in general (Bohemia and Moravia) was deep and broad. Keep that in mind as I describe what is left.

In Prague itself, there are two primary bodies that continue to represent some aspect of the Jewish world of Prague in its original loci of the central city, the official Jewish community of Prague (Židovská obec v Praze [ŽOP]) under the leadership of Rabbi Karel (Ephraim) Sidon and the Prague Jewish Museum authority. Please note that this is a somewhat impressionistic account: in fact, a liberal/Reform organization, Bejt Simcha, is also present and, because of its enterprising founder/tourguide, serves as a frequent interface both among American Jews visiting Prague and Czechs with an interest in Judaism. A Chabad, not surprisingly, is also present. But by and large, that which is officially "Jewish" in Prague falls under the auspices of these two organizations.

This division is a telling indication of the state of affairs. Judaism in Prague is in fact a relic, a museum, and even in its active life more a placeholder of a former world than a living creature. I say this not to disparage (although more about that below), but to observe. I'll discuss each in turn.

First the kehilla. Toby and I, because of the convenience of our identity as shomer Shabbat Jews, were able to have an unmediated and extensive encounter with what survives as a religiously-active Jewish Prague. We spent all of Shabbat in and out of the Altneuschul, what seemed to me to serve as the central location of Shabbat life (although it appears that the Jerusalemska synagogue is also functioning for Shachrit services on Shabbat, although I was unable to find any clear indication of it being open at all -- the policemen posted in front of it at all times were not very illuminating on that score).

The Altneuschul thus is the de facto locus of the main "Orthodox" community (although officially there is no other community; the kehilla doesn't recognize Bejt Simcha). Rabbi Sidon, it turned out, was there, as were other men who were clearly regulars, including the gentleman who was our liason for the apartment, Jacob Shvab. There was a hasidic gentleman (I assume was the local Chabad emissary), three or four older gentlemen (one of whom turned out to be the gabbai rishon, the others clearly "machers" in the shul), and a few others, some of them clearly ba'alei teshuva or, as is more likely, converts. One family I whom I became briefly acquainted with through Toby (he has the most amazing knack for making friends without speaking their language -- Toby spoke not a word of Czech, the kid he played with all Shabbat not a word of English) who seemed to be regulars didn't even live in Prague, but 100 km outside, and rented an apartment in Prague for Shabbat and holidays.

Without exception, the community was warm and welcoming -- even the Czech security guards, once they recognized you as a shomer Shabbat person and stopped grilling you every time you tried to enter. And I have to say, there is something awesome about being able to walk past the throngs of tourists who are standing around the entrance, forbidden from entering on Shabbat, and walk in the door without a second glance. After Kabbalat Shabbat and Shacharit the next day, Toby and I returned for Mincha. We were then able to enter the other main Jewish sight under the administration of the kehillah, the Jewish town hall (see the picture: it is the building with the clocks next to the Altneuschul). Here we enjoyed a small seudah shlishit (third Shabbat meal), with most of the regulars from the synagogue in attendance. Oh -- one other thing -- I was given an aliyah during Shacharit. Now, those who know me know I'm not the most sentimental when it comes to religion, but I think that after having an aliyah in the Maharal's synagogue, just a couple of meters from the seat in which he and his illustrious predecessors and successors sat, has pretty much made any future aliyah superfluous. I came away from Shabbat really on cloud nine.

My ecstasy was quite completely punctured by my encounter with the other institutional body, the Prague Jewish Museum authority. All of the other Jewish sights of the town center, including the cemetery, the Maisel synagogue, the Pinkas synagogue, the Hevra Kadisha hall, and the Spanish synagogue are under the administration by the PJM. None of the sights functions in any way as a sacred site anymore, all have been turned into museum space and tourist attractions.

When Toby and I paid the exorbitant fee to enter these sights (500 crowns for the two of us; higher than any other tourist sight we visited on the trip), I will readily admit that my mood was swinging towards irritated. But that was just the beginning. Entering the Spanish synagogue first, we encountered a fantastic example of late 19th century neo-Moorish style, ornamentation that was among the most extensive I've ever seen in a comparable building of the period. It was both gaudy and fantastic. Of course, as I am writing an article on these buildings, I needed to take notes on it. Everywhere were hung signs that forbade photography...so fine, I thought, I'll take notes with the recorder in my I-phone. I happily went my way, walking around commenting on the details of the shul, respectful of the ridiculous injunction against photography (because it actually is ridiculous, and cynical, to forbid photography inside; the excuse is that flash photography would damage the site somehow -- although I never use a flash; the real reason is that the PJM wants to have exclusive monetary rights to any images of the buildings). The museum exhibitions were somewhat interesting but poorly executed and arranged.

As Toby and I were making our circuit of the building, the ugliness began. While holding my phone/recorder, a Czech woman, in her late 70s if not older, accosted me loudly: "No photographs!" I showed her the recorder, invited her to examine it, and said, politely, that this was a phone recorder, not a camera. "No photographs!" she yelled louder and with undisguised hostility. I protested, again, that it was not a camera. Her response: "It is camera. No photographs!" Now I was mad. Clearly, she didn't understand enough English for me to explain, so I simply said, "I'm an academic, this is a recorder, I'm following the rules, so please go away," and turned my back. She followed me for a few minutes, and then went away, apparently satisfied that she'd done her job when no flashes emanated from my phone.

Now, I wouldn't make more of this, as much as it annoyed me, were it not for the next day, when Toby and I went to the second synagogue that has been desecrated by the PJM association to form the other "half" of the museum exhibit, the Maisel synagogue. I had gotten over the previous day's irritations. Toby and I walked around the main floor of the building, and once we had seen everything, we looked up, and saw clearly that there were more exhibits in what had been the women's gallery, and also that there were other museum patrons walking around up there. To this day I don't know who they were. Toby and I looked around the building trying to find the access point to the gallery. Having no success, I approached this building's own old Czech woman sitting to make sure no one was (gasp!) taking a picture, and asked, politely, how one got to the gallery, gesturing in case she didn't understand me. "No upstairs!" she yelled. Yelled -- I do not exaggerate. I looked up, and saw people up there, and began (for some reason...I still don't know why I bothered) to protest that there were people up there. With indignation that would have been appropriate if I had vilely insulted her mother, she looked at me, "NO!" she actually shouted again. And again, "NO!" I could not help myself; I said with a smile knowing that she likely did not understand me, "Could you say that once more? I didn't hear you the first three times," and turned on my heel...I heard her muttering in Czech at me so that I could hear as I walked away. Had I really been quick I would have turned around and yelled "Rozumim cesky!"[I understand Czech] at her to see if it would cause her any embarrassment to think I understood her mutterings, but to be honest, I was shaken, and couldn't think that far out of the situation.

Now, I can stomach many things. And while I am neither a patient nor a particularly thick-skinned person, one thing I do take very seriously is being a guest in another country. I go out of my way to cooperate, to not make myself stand out, to be polite, to respect that I am visiting another culture and another society, and that I should comport myself as such. It is a point of pride for me.

And because of that, I can tolerate many things. I can stomach seeing these beautiful buildings, once a vibrant part of Jewish daily life (or even not-so-daily, but at least present life), rendered sterile, mothballed relics. I can stomach the fact that the artifacts on display in these shuls, as Toby very keenly and sadly noticed again and again, were taken away from the people who used them and now can't be used the way they're supposed to be (I am so proud of my boy, by the way), and are now in the possession of an institution that indicates no sense of their living meaning. I can even, barely, stomach that I am being charged for the privilege of going into a synagogue, with the money NOT going towards the support of a living Jewish community, but an institution that whose raison d'etre is to see the sites remaining, for all intents and purposes, tombs (and in the disturbing case of the Pinkas synagogue, as close to a real tomb as one can get without actual bodies).

But I discovered that there is a limit for me. And that limit is being made to feel like an intruder, a bother, a disturbance in these very sights, which was exactly the aim and attitude of these pitiful Czech women. And I am not comforted by my awareness that they knew Toby and I were not only foreigners, but Jewish foreigners (Toby's tsitsit were out, and we both took off our winter hats while inside the shuls -- even though we were careful not to wear our kippot outside, I felt that I had a right to be Jewish in a goddam shul!).

And I have to say, it hit me like a ton of bricks. Never have I been so clearly aware that I was most certainly NOT welcome. Oh, sure, I was welcome to pay my 500 crowns, walk quickly and quietly and for God's sake NOT take any pictures and then get the hell out, but I was not welcome.

I have a hard time processing this feeling. But I guess if I had to, it would go something like this: I am offended at the pure, unadulterated chutzpah (for lack of a better word) of being treated like this in a Jewish place, a Jewish building built by people whose descendants, had they not been sent on a train to Terezin and then to Auschwitz, would have not only probably been happy to see me spending Shabbat in their community, but likely invited me for Shabbat dinner some of them. I am offended -- I am outraged -- that these two Czech women, both without a doubt alive to see these same Jews who lived and worked and worshiped in these buildings put on said trains (when there were trains, and watched them walk out on foot when there weren't), felt they had the right to make me and my son feel like nuisances and an intruders.

I know I'm probably reading too much into it; here are two little old ladies who have to deal with hundreds of tourists every day, and who don't have a lot of patience for anything from any one individual. They just want to get their paycheck, not be bothered too much, and go home to their apartments and knedliky. In other words, it's nothing personal. But when was it ever? And if one can't expect a modicum of decency in places like these, where such decency would at least convey a degree of respect for the place (which I doubt these women have either), where can one ever hope for it?

Actually, outraged doesn't quite cover it.

Prague Reflections

I can't deny that I had expectations on going back to Prague, the first time in a decade and a half. After all, it was where I spent perhaps the most formative semester of my college career. More importantly, of course, it was the point of origin of Kara's and my relationship. It is a place I remember fondly.

But this time, the trip was supposed to be (at least in part) all about business. I was coming to Prague with a very different set of goals than I had had the first time. Then, it was about experience, self-discovery -- all that college-y crap. This time, it was about trying to see the locus of so much that has disappeared, but which is so vividly a part of my professional life. It was about trying to grasp the physical geography of the world in which my subjects lived.

To that end, me and my intrepid research assistant Toby, set out in the middle of one of the colder Central European winters in recent memory, to wander around Prague and, weather permitting, the spa towns of Western Bohemia.

When we arrived, after a day that began at 2:30 am in Jerusalem, to an absolutely freezing Prague. Strangely, I had never been to Ruzne airport (to my readers who know Czech, please forgive the lack of diacritics -- I can't make them work on this blogging site!) -- the last time I was in Prague, I took the very poor advice of flying to Frankfurt and taking a train...which added about 12 hours to the journey. The airport today offered the first of what would be a consistent experience of the entire trip: a city that has come very far towards becoming a west European city, with all that is good and bad about that (in my opinion, mostly bad)...but still had not gone all the way. The airport was as sterile as Luden or De Gaulle (or Ben Gurion, for that matter, which it probably resembles most) the same yellow signs now synonymous with international air travel, the same duty free shops, and on and on. Yet, there was no gate for our arrival -- only a shuttle bus that brought us from the freezing tarmac to the terminal.

We were met by a driver at the baggage claim, a man that I can only describe as about the most typical Czech driver I've ever seen. Portly, full head of grey hair and trimmed but unkempt beard, wire rimmed, aviator-style eyeglasses...he could have been written by Kundera. That I liked -- for a while. It would be a few days before I would remember what came along with this picturesqueness.

We arrived in Prague...and as hackneyed as it is to say, it really was just as I remembered it. We drove down Evropska, but turned towards the castle before hitting Dejvica, taking Horakove to Badanelho, and down around the front of the castle. When I saw the 22 tram, which runs along the same route from Bila Hora, it was like a homecoming.

Then things were different. As a student, living in a dorm in Dejvica, I had never really approached the Stare Mesto and Josefov from a car. I had always taken the Metro from Dejvicka station to Mustek, and then gotten hopelessly lost walking from the boundaries of the New and Old Towns towards the river. For the first time, I realized how compact the city actually is. In what seemed like less than two minutes, we had crossed the Vlatava on Manesuv bridge, and were immediately in the middle of Josefov. Two turns, past the Altneuschul, down Parizska to Siroka to Elisky Krasnohorkse...and stopped on a magnificent street of c. 1900 Art Nouveau apartment blocks to our apartment for the week, which looked out upon four gargantuan pink atlantes. It was exactly what I had come to see.

Although we were tired, Toby and I started out immediately. We crossed the street, and found ourselves facing the Spanish Synagogue with its appallingly bizarre statue of Franz Kafka. I took it in. I have been writing about synagogues like the Spanish for months now, trying to get my head around not just the buildings but the mise-en-scene, and here was one of the finest standing examples, literally around the corner from where we would be living for the next eight days. After sitting for a few minutes in the Pasta Cafe, attached to the entrance to the Jewish Museum (which I will describe in more detail later), to call Kara -- we needed wireless to use Skype on my I-phone -- and I should add that it worked wonderfully.

We walked about two blocks and found ourselves in the Staremestske Namesti. This was a place I had not spent much time at years ago -- in fact, I avoided for the most part the tourist areas to the extent that I could. The good thing about coming during a cold snap at the beginning of December was that, at least for the first few days, we had these spaces almost to ourselves. Even the stalls set up for the Christmas fair on the square were affected -- only about 2/3 of them opened, the rest of the merchants didn't bother to show up until the weather improved.

These were the best days. The weather was terrible, and thus the tourists were very few in number.

I had not realized, and was delighted to find, how thoroughly modern Josefov had been made at the turn of the 20th century. The buildings, almost every one, were built between 1890 and 1910, all of them showed a degree of design and craftsmanship -- even the more modest ones such as were on our block -- that showed the neighborhood to have been re-designed with a very affluent clientele in mind. The old Jewish neighborhood (which tourists are still mistakenly believing they are looking at when they walk around Josefov) is really nowhere to be found -- indeed, it was probably through an act of the same sentimentality that allowed for the survival of those buildings (the Altneuschul, the cemetery, the Hevra Kadisha hall, the Maiselova and the Pinkas synagogues) that still do stand of the old neighborhood. The rest is long gone...but so much the better for my project, as it shows precisely the cultural factors at work in the neighborhood's construction (if you want me to elaborate, check out my book when it's published in about three years :-))...

OK, it is getting late...more in the next few installments!

Thoughts on Qumran

Wow! I just realized that it has been half a month since I've posted on the blog...which likely means that the very few readers who I had have given up all hope. Ah well...if you're still out there, here are some more musings.

So I'm reading an interesting primer on the Qumran manuscripts -- otherwise known as the Dead Sea Scrolls. Since I am pretty sure I'm going to be teaching ancient Jewish history one of these days, I need to bone up on a lot of the material that has been buried in the dusty back of my brain.

Reading Hartmut Stegemann's book The Library of Qumran has revealed many interesting aspects of the history of these incredible documents. Just to bring everybody up to speed, to review: the Dead Sea Scrolls are a collection of manuscripts dating from between the last century before the Common Era until the Jewish Wars around 70 CE that were discovered in a cave in 1947. These scrolls were uncovered in a series of caves around an area called Qumran near the northeastern shore of the Dead Sea. The scrolls are remarkable for any number of reasons, but some of the main ones are 1) the are the oldest preserved manuscripts of several Biblical texts, 2) they demonstrate a remarkable consistency with said texts, 3) they also contain several extra-canonical texts that exist solely in the scrolls themselves, 4) there are a huge number of them, an almost unheard of case of accidental preservation, and 5) they seem to document the community that produced them, a somewhat unusual, quasi-monastic community usually referred to as "Essenes," (which, as it turns out, is simply a mutated Greek form of the Hebrew word "Hasidim," -- not our furry-hat wearing friends, but the ancient hasidim, referred to repeatedly in rabbinic texts).

It is this last bit that has spurred the most interest from scholars and pseudo-scholars. About the people (or rather, men) who produced these scrolls there is precious little original information (although many of the contemporary texts -- most famously Josephus -- make reference to them), and so they are subject to all kinds of crazy interpretations. Some read the as proto- (or original) Christians, some as a strange messianic Jewish sect. The most likely interpretation to my amateur eyes would be that they were in fact a pietistic Jewish group, who sought an intensely purified life outside of contact with the contaminating aspects of culture -- in other words, a kind of Jewish monastic movement.

In reading Stegemann, however, what captured my imagination was the one thing that makes this community famous today -- and that is the scrolls themselves. Stegemann's description of the end of the Qumran community is extremely evocative. Like most of the Jewish communities during the conquest of Palestine by the Roman Legions in the 60s, Qumran was destroyed in its entirety in 68 as Vespatian's army marched from Jericho to the Dead Sea and then down the coast. It was wiped out, the attempt by its residents to defend the city a failure.

But before the community was destroyed, the residents did an extraordinary thing: when they saw that the Romans were on the way, knew that they were unlikely to survive the encounter, they took all of the scrolls that they had produced (as Stegemann suggests, the primary occupation of the settlement was the production of these sacred scrolls, both for the use by the community itself and for sale -- yet again making it resonant with a monastic community), and carried them as quickly as they could to caves in the surrounding hills. Some of the most important scrolls they hid first and well, but as the day progressed and panic over their approaching doom increased, they hid the scrolls more and more haphazardly. In the end, the community was destroyed, but the work of hiding the scrolls bore fruit.

Now, what got me thinking was one question: why? Why did they go to all this trouble? What was their aim in taking the time -- time they perhaps could have fled, could have fortified the settlement, or any other number of things -- to hid hundreds of pieces of parchment and papyrus?

Did they think that a survivor could come back for them, and reconstruct the community? Did they think that they might succeed in holding off the Romans, and didn't want their most precious possessions damaged in the struggle? Or, on the contrary, did they foresee what was in fact their ultimate fate, and truly hide the scrolls for posterity?

I admit I'm stymied. But it is a fascinating -- and chilling -- thing to consider.

Coda: The scrolls today are spread somewhat far and wide, due to the wild west-like atmosphere that prevailed during the course of their discovery (it was, after all, literally during the 1947-48 conflict that the scrolls were discovered -- not exactly the best scenario for an orderly archeological excavation). A good number of them -- including some of the most complete -- are in the possession of the Israel Museum, and some displayed at the Shrine of the Book (pictured). They are really worth a look. I'm amazed at this moment when I reflect on the fact that I walk within about 100 meters of those things almost every day, as I make my way to the archives to dig up my own (admittedly, much smaller!) little historical mysteries.

Our First Siur (Tour): Yemin Moshe and Mahane Yisrael

When we first got to Israel, one of my best birthday presents was from Kara, a book published by the Yad ben Tsvi institute. The institute is a sort of combination think tank, tourism and academic center dedicated to studying the history of Israel. Among other things, they sponsor siurim (tours) around Jerusalem led by experts in the history. As I told Toby, Jerusalem is like a living museum, and there are any number of topics and tours to take.

So the book Kara bought me, "ירושלים בכל נתיבותה," (Jerusalem in all its paths"), is a collection of in-depth tours around the city, arranged in chronological order dating back from the earliest settlement in the area in the Bibilical period to the latest buildings, somewhere around 30 different tours. I have been wanting to take one of the tours for some time, and finally Toby and I had time on Tuesday.

Since I am a modernist, I decided that we would start with the "modern" period of Jerusalem's history, which dates back to about 1860. It is always amazing to me to think, when looking around the city, that were one to live "in" Jerusalem before 1860, one would live literally within the city walls. The "breaching of the walls," that is to say, the first time Jews moved outside "Jewish Quarter" of the city occurred when English philanthropist, Moses Montefiore, funded the construction of a neighborhood, "Mishkenot She'ananim" (to which was later added "Yemin Moshe," "the right hand of Moses" named in Montefiore's honor, usually applied to the whole area) along with a windmill for grinding grain, for the sake of improving the sanitary conditions of the Jewish yishuv (community) in Ottoman Palestine (windmill pictured above).

Nestled in the hillside directly south of the Old City is the neighborhood that Montefiore built. It is a beautiful neighborhood, among other things featuring fantastic views of the southern wall of the city. At one time, the neighborhood was quite a bit rougher. There was a good reason why people didn't live outside the city walls back then: doing so put you at a great deal of risk of lawlessness and danger. The apartments that Montefiore built for the Jews of Jerusalem were supposed to be a way out of the unhygienic conditions of the walled city; but in the view of the intended residents, the dangers of spending the night outside the city walls was considerably greater. Now, the neighborhood is gorgeous...and one of the most exclusive addresses in the city.

Walking out of Yemin Moshe, we came to a park behind the famous King David Hotel. As if to prove the point that the city truly is a museum unto itself, in the middle of this park we discovered (with the help of Yad Ben Tsvi) two tombs, including one with the round stone that had previously covered it standing next to it (see picture). These tombs could date back to the Second Temple period. An archeologist from the 19th century, Conrad Schick, called the tombs "The Herod Family Tombs" based upon his (mis)reading of Josephus. We actually don't know whose tombs these were, nor where Herod actually was buried.

Walking to King David Street, Toby and I made our way to the second Jewish settlement outside the city walls, the neighborhood Mahane Yisrael ("The Camp of Israel"), which was constructed in 1868. Unlike Yemin Moshe, not much is left of the old neighborhood; being located so centrally near some of the major hotels of modern Jerusalem have meant that what once stood has largely been built over for shopping and apartments; in fact, Toby and I were unable to follow the correct route according to our guide because of new building construction.

Perhaps one of the most interesting new things we discovered (new to us, that is) was the Mamilla cemetery. Now across from the chi-chi new Mamilla Mall, the Muslim cemetery is a remarkable plot of land with graves dating back to the Mamluk period. Not surprisingly, being located on land so central to the city, the area is subject to a great deal of heated controversy, and according to some reports, as much as 90% of the original cemetery has been covered or removed. That which remains, however, features fascinating artifacts including a remarkable tomb (see photo), complete with cupola. This is the 13th century tomb, called "Turba el-kubakya," named after a Mamluk military leader, Al a-din Idogadi el-kubaki, and dated 1289.

Now the cemetery is the source of controversy due to accusations that a new parking lot - ironically, intended to serve the new Museum of Tolerance - was built over part of the cemetery, and as a result desecrated Muslim graves.

Farewells and Katamon, Pt. 2

Today Toby and I said a tearful farewell to Kara and Beruria at Ben Gurion, who will be returning to the 'States for a few months. We're both extremely bummed out, needless to say. Although you prepare and prepare, when the time comes to say goodbye, it's just never easy at all.

On a happier note, Toby's friend from New York, Ari Jesselson, was in town today, and they had a nice long playdate this afternoon. I am very grateful, as I really think it took Toby's mind off everything else for a good while.

So, to take my mind off since Toby's gone to bed (and snoring away, I'm happy to say), a little about the neighborhood we live in in Jerusalem, Katamon. (By the way, the photo at left is a beautiful shot of the sunset near on a street between Nahlaot and Rehavia that we just happened to see as we were walking from Machane Yehuda market home on Sunday evening.)

Katamon, sometimes (although not usually) referred to as Gonen (the name the "powers that be" attempted to change it to but which never stuck) is a fascinating area. It is basically bounded by a ridgeline from Rehavia to the northwest, by a series of schools and diplomatic buildings to the southeast form the German Colony (Hamoshava ha-germanit) to the southwest by a kind of industrial/high density housing, and to the Northeast by a hill, the top of which is the street leading to the president's residence and other large institutional campuses.

The neighborhood was one of the parts of the city that saw serious fighting in the '48 war, and had been before the conflict a largely Arab neighborhood. In fact, in the years immediately preceding the war, most of the Arab national consulates were located here, just down the hill from our apartment (obviously no longer). In fact, the yeshiva of the Erlau (see last post) was at one time the Syrian consulate -- although I believe the eventually knocked down the original building for the sake of space.

Because, I think, of the centrality of the neighborhood to the fight for Jerusalem in '48, a number of the streets have names which refer to the War for Independence. Our street, Bilu, is not one of them; it refers to an early agrarian-utopian Jewish nationalist group who made aliyah in 1882. But we are on the corner of Bilu and Mishmor ha-am on one side, and Hayl Nashim on the other, both of which refer to fighters in the war (mishmor ha-am=guardians of the city, Hayl Nashim= women soldiers of the Haganah). A block away, and the location of one of our favorite ice cream places is "Ha-lamed-heh" (הל"ה), which refers to 35 fighters in the Haganah who were killed in their attempt to aid the besieged Gush Etzion bloc in 1948. The main street that runs along the northern ridge/boundary of the neighborhood, Ha-palmah, is named for the elite unit of the Haganah in the pre-48 and '48 period. And so on.

One of the most interesting spots in the 'hood, and one that I intend to devote much more time looking in to, is San Simon. Currently, it is our favorite Shabbat park; two playgrounds, three large lawns -- it is great for both kids; Beruria loves the playground toys, Toby's finally gotten up the courage to join in to the pickup soccer games on the lawn. But hidden in the corner of the park, completely ignored by the dozens of Jews out for a Shabbat tiul (stroll), is a walled monastery, the namesake of the area. According to the father of one of Toby's friends, the monastery saw some rather disturbing action in the '48 conflict. It is located on a very strategic hilltop, one that the Haganah attempted to seize early in the fighting, and which gave them a strategic advantage. Unfortunately, in the process of securing the area, some of the nuns living at the place (which was then, it seems, a convent), were mistaken for Arabs and shot -- a very inauspicious moment.

As it turns out, Meir Shalev, one of Israel's most important "serious" writers, has written a novel about the neighborhood and San Simon entitled יונה ונער (Dove and Boy), which I just picked up to read today. I've heard it's pretty good; we'll see.

One other very interesting thing about the monastery: it is apparently the site of the death of Shaul Tchernikovsky (link to brief bio). Tchernikovsky was one of the great poets of (what I would call) the "second" generation of modern Hebrew literary figures. His poetry was epic and aspired towards the classics -- he drew from Greek epic and German idylls (I wrote a paper while at Oxford comparing Tchernikovsky with Goethe). He was, to put it another way, a good old fashioned Russian-Jewish-Zionist pagan (God bless 'em) -- a type of which sadly has all but disappeared. Anyhow, the $64,000 question: there is a rumor that when he died, he was interred in San Simon (it seems that now there is a grave in Tel Aviv with his name on it), but what happened when he died there? So I have heard one of two things: one that he scandalously converted to Christianity in secret at the end of his life; second that he died, was cared for by the convent (which would be surprising), and was baptised by them on his deathbed, perhaps against his will.

I'll be interested if I can find out more about this little local mystery.

Our neighborhood, Katamon (Part 1)

Well, the hagim are now over, and Kara and Beruria will be heading back to the 'states on Tuesday. Needless to say, I'm not thrilled. About them going back, that is.

An interesting conclusion to the holidays on Thursday night. As Kara and I were settling in after putting the kids to bed, we were confronted by a din outside our windows. It was the sound of Hasidic simcha (party) music, clearly being played over loudspeakers, and it was growing louder and louder with each passing minute.

Now, I just can't tell you how thrilling this was to me, because I just LOOOOVE canned Hasidic simcha music, especially played at a deafening level outside my window. (That was sarcasm). And to make things even better, it kept playing the same tune. Over. And over. And over. And over. Below is a little clip I took...check it out, and then just imagine THAT going on for two hours or so outside your window. I don't mean just the noise, I mean THAT TUNE for two hours.

Looking out the window, I noticed that a group that usually hovers around the apartment building around the corner seemed to have grown quite large. They are the Erlau, a Slovak/Hungarian haredi (ultra-Orthodox) group who have their major yeshiva just down the road in Katamon. As the noise grew louder, we saw this brilliantly lit-up van with loudspeakers playing said tune, a big keter (crown) made of lights on its roof. The text around the crown read "אשר בחר בנו מכול העמים ונתן לנו את תורתו" (Who choose us from among all the nations and gave us His Torah"). I don't know if they meant them specifically, or what...you never can tell with the Hungarian types.

I've discovered that they also seem to own a significant chunk of the apartment building next door to ours, which may in fact be the home of the Erlau Rav. The procession, as I found out when I asked two young Erlau girls knocked on the door to ask if they could use our bathroom, was of the Erlau Rav himself being escorted up Rechov Bilu (our street) to their apartment around the corner after the conclusion of Simhat Torah.

So, for the uninitiated (which included me until someone set me straight a couple of weeks ago), the Erlau look like Hasidim...the same furry hats (streimels), same bekeshes (silk caftans), knickers, the whole nine yards. But technically they are not Hasidim, but the followers of the more extremist ideological descendants of the early 19th century leader of the Pressburg Yeshiva, the Chatam Sofer. Interestingly, when I found this out, I realized it was a bit like a homecoming -- another offshoot of the same Hungarian ultra-Orthodox strain live just up the road from us in Westchester County (near Mt. Kisco), the Nitra. Nowadays, they've pretty much merged in terms of dress, behavior, language (Yiddish, although I also hear them speak a lot of Hebrew on the street) and rebbe-reverence (or should I say "rav" reverence) with Hungarian hasidim.

So, you see the Erlau walking around all over the place in the 'hood...and they are usually pretty low-key, but this was quite the extravaganza.


It brings to mind my deep ambivalence about the haredim. In Israel, they are an extremely controversial block in a way they aren't in the United States, so my feelings are slightly less complex here...I am fairly well-ensconced in what I would regard as the plain old "da'ati" (just traditional or religious -- that is, keep shabbat, kosher, etc., but not in anyone's face about it), and ergo not so thrilled about the haredim.

But one of the things that has struck me -- in fact, shocked me -- is how difficult it is in the United States to be just plain old "da'ati." Because there really is no over-arching society of "Jewishness" in the sense that it exists here. In other words, here there is an entire infrastructure of culture, identity, symbolism, and so on that are "Jewish" no matter how you slice it. You speak Hebrew. The holidays are the Jewish holidays. People take vacation on Sukkot, even if they've never sat in a sukkah, because that's the vacation time. The founding literature of the national identity is the Tanakh (Bible), the Mishnah, as well as Shay Agnon and Yosef Hayim Brenner.

In the US, you have to choose your Jewish identity in a way that you don't have to here, and I've noticed it makes for some strange bedfellows once Americans come here. You especially see it in the Americans who come for the holidays or for the year. If they are Orthodox in the US, they constantly try to find that right category that seems most familiar as "Orthodox" in Israel. The problem is, it doesn't really exist per se. As a result, many of the Americans gravitate towards a kind of ersatz haredi-ism. They aren't truly haredi, in the sense of my Erlau neighbors, but their cultural signifiers are really closest to haredi from the Israel mindset. They are kind of an "Anglo-da'ati/haredi," if I had to come up with a term for it. It's an interesting thing to observe.

Oh, shul update. I discovered that the Yad Yehuda ha-Levi, the minyan that meets in the actual beyt knesset (synagogue) of the Yehuda ha-Levi school (Toby's school), is just perfect for me. To my delight, over Sukkot I discovered that it is the shul of choice for just about the entire Bar Ilan University Jewish studies faculty, which is just great for me. And the bonus is that Toby's friend from school, Natan, and his family go there. So, happily, after our long search, I think we've found a home. And the drashot (speeches) are in Hebrew!

Next time I'd like to write a little more about Katamon...a fascinating neighborhood.

Unrest on Sukkot

At the moment I'm writing this, just a couple of miles away there are riots. An Israeli security guard shot dead a Palestinian man last night in Silwan, and it seems that things are now escalating. Palestinians have apparently been dropping stones on Jews at the Kotel from above, and the police are dispersing them.

It's strange to be sitting in a quiet neighborhood in Jerusalem when just a twenty minute walk away the existential conflict of the last century simmers on.

Let's hope it ends soon, and without further casualties.

I hope that all my friends and family enjoy this Sukkot (or, for my non-Jewish friends, the weekend). We'll be sitting in our tiny sukkah on our balcony, beautifully decorated by Toby, Beruria and Kara. Here's a pic of Beruria with some paper chains she helped make for the sukkah.

Hag sameach...and may we all soon see a lasting peace.

Thoughts that occurred to me in shul on Rosh Hashanah

Although the long prayers of Rosh Hashana can grate, I do find that I enjoy the unfettered time sitting in one place (more or less, and children permitting), for usually three or four hours, surrounded by the sounds of the holiday. Usually these include: the hazan, the guys talking, kids running in and out of shul, those same kids being shushed by the guys talking, etc.

But mostly I find that it gives me a good opportunity to think about the themes of the day. And perhaps my favorite thing to think about almost every Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, is a prayer that forms the heart of the piyyutim (liturgic prayers) in the opening of the hazarat ha-shats (the cantor's repitition of the Amida), an elegant piece written in medieval Germany, "Unetaneh Tokef," ("And let us now recount...").

The main part of the poem deals with the theme of judgment -- it is a dramatic narration of the way that the judgment of souls happens on Yom Kippur. First there is the sound of a shofar, which is described surprisingly as "d'mama daka," "still and thin," and then the souls are shepherded (literally, they are compared to sheep) to be judged.

Ok, all well and good, but the part of the poem that always gets me is towards the end. Here is what it says, in translation:

"Man's origin is dirt and his end is to dirt
with his very life he brings home his bread
he is but a broken shard, dried-out grass
a fallen flower, a passing shadow
a dissolving cloud, a passing breeze
a puff of dust, a fleeting dream."

Every year, and this one is no exception, this affects me very deeply. It says it all, I think; it is, in its simple list of really admittedly trite metaphors, speaking the most profound truth: that this is all there is. Or, to put it in succinct Hebrew, "מה זה יש." This life is what we are given, and we must account with our very souls for its meaning, because, in all the millenia of those who have come and gone, the end of us all is the same.

This year, I brought to this prayer something new. Lately I've developed something of an interest in the history of Mahayna (especially Zen) Buddhism, and in my reading I discovered a very fascinating resonance to this passage, both in the literal content and in the meaning of the passage in the awakening of a central figure in the history of Zen, no less than the Sixth Patriarch who is credited, in some traditions, with the establishment of the fundamental form of Zen meditation, that is Zazen, or sitting meditation, the monk Daijan Hui Neng.

Hui Neng came from modest origins. In fact, he had no formal training as a monk at all. He was illiterate, an orphan, and a laborer. One night, he heard a group of monks chanting a central piece of Zen writing, the Diamond Cutter's Sutra (so named, I've been told, because it cuts through the hardest of illusions to reveal the truth -- and I think that's an apt description). Listening to the monks chant the sutra, they came to the final passage. When Hui Neng heard it, he was struck, and achieved a moment of clarity, a glimpse of what is described in the Zen tradition as "satori," or, as we tritely translate it, "enlightenment." He then went on to become the key link in the chain of transmission of the dharma. Here are the words he heard:

"Thus shall ye think of all this fleeting world:
A star at dawn, a bubble in a stream;
A flash of lightning in a summer cloud,
A flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream."

Even as I write this, the recognition of how similar the two texts are, despite being written thousands of miles and hundreds of years apart, makes me shiver. The traditions are so different and yet come to the same conclusion in this instance, even the same words.

What does it all mean? I don't know, and to be honest, I'm not even really interested in figuring it out. I'm simply pleased to experience the sentiment, to distill the truth of both expressions, because what they both reflect is the very basic sentiment:

Life is short. It is also precious. Don't forget.

Shana tova.

שנה טובה ומתוקה

Our first yom tov in Israel! Managed to finish the shopping and cleaning, and now we're getting ready for the onset of Rosh Hashanah.

Just a quick observation. It is strange, and I have to admit pleasant, to be in a place where the Jewish holidays are...well...the holidays. All of the Egged buses, in addition to their normal routes, have "Shana Tova" flashing on their signs; the whole country (or at least the part of the country I am seeing) seems to be settling in for time with family, on holiday, or in shul.

It's strange, and Kara and I (or at least I) were not really prepared for it. I'm still pretty much in an American mindset -- the Jewish holidays in the States are usually something we kind of have to rush through, at times even apologize for. Apologize for missing work, having to explain to our friends and co-workers why we can't do such-and-such. Even for me, working at a Jewish institution that closes for all the holidays, it feels like I'm in the minority.

I'll just say it straight: the holidays in the 'states are, regardless of your religion, the Christian/national ones. Those are the ones during which the country itself seems festive, where time seems to bend around the festivities. It is really fascinating to be in a place where the festivities of note, to everyone, are the Jewish ones.

Anyway, wishing a pleasant, meaningful and fulfilling new year to all my friends and family, those who celebrate the Jewish holidays and those who don't.

Thoughts on Hebrew Slang

So, as some of you may know, I've been spending the last several days on a killer intensive ulpan (= class for Hebrew study) for the sake of improving my conversational skills. It's been great; I'm feeling much more confident in my use of the language...the biggest problem I've had is really lack of confidence and a memory like a sieve, but this really seems to be helping.

At any rate, my instructor, Noa, and I have discussed on a couple of occasions Hebrew slang. Since I've been here, and especially since I've been watching the awesome Israeli drama Asfur (on Hot 3 at 1045 pm, Sunday-Thursday), I've really gotten obsessed with Hebrew slang. (By the way, Asfur is a pretty fun show...If your interested, here's the Hot 3 link with info about it...and here is an English Wikipedia article about the show.)

So, one very interesting thing about many popular Israeli slang words is that they are, in fact, not Hebrew but Arabic. Some examples:

Sababa = Probably the most well-known word, meaning "OK" or "B'seder" in Hebrew
Achla = meaning fantastic or really first-rate
Ala kefakh = meaning terrific
Yallah = actually, this might be more widely known than "sababa" -- "let's go" or "come on, let's get going" or, in some case, just sort of a general "ok, let's move on to the next thing"
Wallah = a more elusive term for me; I've seen it in a number of contexts, seems to mean something like "alright," "ok," "great," "whatever"
Mavsut = I just heard this one for the first time today; means "ok, I'm satisfied" with something.

Of course there are many other words that have entered common parlance.

Now, one of the more interesting discussions on the subject I had with Noa was the very obvious point of just how much the appearance of Arabic in commonly spoken Hebrew reflects a real paucity of engagement. One might think that these terms -- which, like most slang, are a kind of "cooler" vocabulary, the sort of thing that reflects a certain degree of hipness or with-it-ness on the part of the speaker, thus perhaps reflects a more open attitude towards Arabic and perhaps Arabs. And perhaps it does.

But, as Noa pointed out quite correctly, in fact there is a rather patronizing aspect to these words, in that they are for the most part the entire engagement of many Israelis with the Arabic language. This despite the fact that a significant proportion of the Israeli population speaks Arabic as its first language (primarily Palestinian and Israeli-Arab Muslims and Christians, but also the older generation of Jewish olim [=immigrants to Israel] from Arabic-speaking countries). In a way, what seems (and seemed to me, I admit) a kind of cool attempt at some kind of openness to Arabic culture, is in fact a sign of just how far we are from each other. Most Israelis, Noa pointed out, study Arabic not because of its incredible history and literature, but rather so that they can serve in Mossad. Arabs, for their part, are expected rather blithely (on the part of Israelis and Jews in Israel in general) to either be able to communicate with Israelis in Hebrew or English or not at all.

(And need I add, sourly, that the Hebrew of MOST Arabs living between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean is far and away superior to the Hebrew of many, many American olim, especially of late?)

A big part of me can't help but think that we might be doing ourselves a big favor -- and not just from the Mossad-security perspective -- if we spent a little time understanding more Arabic than "Yallah."

(Pic is of Sholem Aleichem Street in Jerusalem. Significance to post: Sholem Aleichem, or Sholem Rabinovitsh [1859-1916], formerly of Kiev but buried in Queens, New York, spoke Russian in the home, is known as one of the great Yiddish stylists of all time (he wrote the stories Tevye der milkhiker, Tevye the Dairyman, upon which Fiddler on the Roof is based), and was not a bad Hebrew writer either. I doubt were he ever to have settled in Israel, he would have remained ignorant of Arabic. His nom de plume, meaning "Peace upon you," a traditional Yiddish and Hebrew greeting, is literally the same as "A salaam alekhem," the traditional Arabic greeting. I'm embarrassed to say that I don't even know enough about Arabic letters to be able to say if the street sign's Arabic is a translation or transliteration!)

Not so great Shabbat

Well, I hate to say it, but I'm in a funk. This Shabbat which just ended was pretty much a bust.

Wait -- I take that back -- we enjoyed a wonderful lunch with Jeff Pearlstein and Nancy Dallek, of White Plains, who were gracious enough to invite us over for a very nice lunch in Baka. Thanks very much!

No, the real problem was shul. We (or at least I) have not found a shul that really works. Last week we were at this place which was ok, but met the gym of Toby's high school. It was also a little on the dead side, and we didn't really connect with anyone per se.

This week, Toby and I tried a shul, the Ramban shul in Katamon (not to be confused with the shul of the same name in the Old City). It is pretty well known because its rabbi, Beni Lau, is a big deal in the whole Tsohar movement, and also a pretty well regarded writer and speaker.

Ok. As for Rabbi Lau, I was impressed. He was quite a presence, and his drasha (betach b'ivrit) was a very good workout for my Hebrew, and I enjoyed it.

As for the shul itself, what a bummer. Packed to the rafters (which is fine; Toby and I were late, and so can't really complain that we had to look pretty hard for seats), the shul had a mixture of New York-y Americans (I'd say "Teaneck-y" to be more specific) and dati leumi Israelis. A mixture of Hebrew and English in the peanut gallery talking. Toby and I finally found a seat, right smack in the middle of the right hand section of the shul. We davened, we listened to the k'riah, and to the drasha, and I tried to keep up a good face.

After davening, while trying to make our way out to the courtyard by the shul, that was where the annoyingness began. Obviously new, obviously not knowing a soul nor where anything was, Toby and I, I would think, should attract at least one friendly person asking us who we were. But no. Nothing. Not a look, not a "Shabbat shalom," not even a nod or smile.

It's been a long time since I've felt so alienated at shul. Once upon a time, as a young couple in New York, Kara and I felt like we didn't know anyone at the Lincoln Square synagogue. But even there, the resident "good Shabbos - are - you -new - here - where - are - you - from" guy came up and greeted us. Here, shum davar. Nada. Nothing. I felt like I was invisible.

It's a really yucky feeling, I can tell you.

Kara, who went to Shira Hadasha, had a better experience. At least people talked to her there. I think it is the place probably we would gravitate towards, but for reasons related to my profession (ha-mavin ya'avin) it's difficult for me.

I swear, I'm about ready to just crash the Hasidic shtible next door to our apartment. At least when they ignore me there it will be for reasons I can understand.

Oh, and we still have no idea where to daven on Rosh Hashanna, which begins in four days.

Sorry to complain again. Next post better, I hope.

At least here's a nice pic of my sweeties to offset my griping.

The Last Few Days

So, a few days since I've posted. Happy to say, by and large they have all been pretty good.

Let's start with Wednesday. Went to visit Toby's school (our contact, "Rachel" -- we still don't know her last name -- who seems to be the office administrator, has the day off on Thursdays, so...). And I can say this: it was much better than I expected. Although what I expected was that I'd see the school, be so depressed that I 'd have to figure out how I was going to homeschool Toby AND get my research done. The school itself, Yehuda ha-Levi, was actually not bad, and Rachel was absolutely wonderful. It seems Toby will be in a rather large kita bet, but that there are something like 20 other English-speaking children. I would guess that among them there are several bi-lingual (meaning, they'll be speaking Hebrew), but the odds look good that he'll have someone to talk to.

On Thursday, we were honored to attend the bar mitzvah of Rafi Abraham at the Sephardi synagogue in Yemin Moshe. It was great...the shul was very interesting, and the meal was excellent -- held at the Begin center a few meters away from Yemin Moshe.

Since we were near(er), we decided to finally take the trip to the Old City. A moving experience...mostly the experience of trying to move Beruria in her agula down the narrow alleys of the suk (just so you know: no ramps), with her in rather a sour mood. Toby was priceless: the Old City was his image of what all of Jerusalem looked like; he was so excited. We went down to the Jewish Quarter, and it was pretty much as I remembered it...crowded, fascinating...with one massive change: the Hurva synagogue. I am actually amazed that the building has been reconstructed. My last memory is of the rubble and single reconstructed arch. It is an impressive building; and I'll leave it at that.

Went to the Kotel (de rigour, of course). Toby and I caught mincha with a Sephardi minyan there, which pretty much put a damper on Toby's enthusiasm (it was much longer than he was accustomed to), but I found it really...elevating. The truth is, I never quite know how to feel at the Kotel. But I guess that's ok.

Had a coffee at the massive new mall built just below the Jaffa Gate. Talk about bizarre. And don't even get me started on the almost incomprehensible fact that a big chunk of the plaza seemed to have been underwritten by BMW. I have no idea where to go with that. But the coffee was good.

Ok...getting late. To be continued...

Jerusalem Ups and Downs

J'lem, day one. We had (have) so much we need to get done, and it's not getting done, but I guess we are entitled to one day to acclimate. We didn't actually manage to get out of the flat until about 11, and thought that we'd walk from here (Katamon, Bilu 12, for those just tuning in) via King David Street (so that we'd pass by Yemin Moshe and give Toby his first good view of the Old City), and on to Ben Yehuda street. The idea was, we'd be able to get a good falafel (we remembered a good stand on Ben Yehuda, but now I'm less convinced...I think the falafel at Hebrew U. was cheaper and just as good).

So, we walked, and walked, and walked, taking a coffee break periodically. Toby was a trooper, and Bru kept falling asleep in her stroller (which was probably a good thing, as she'd had a hard time sleeping the night before). Happily, the windmill was still there, and Yemin Moshe was as beautiful as ever. To think that when the colony was originally built, its residents only pretended to live there when Montefiore checked up on their progress and to collect their allowance...but I digress.

On Ben Yehuda street, I had the encounter I'd been dreading since I knew I'd be returning to Israel. Kara and I were looking at a map, trying to strategize the best way to get back home.

[Note to self: don't be so stupid as to open a map on Ben Yehuda street.]

As we're looking and discussing, suddenly I notice a man has taken an interest in us. He butts in to our conversation, asking us where we're trying to go. I look up, and immediately know it's bad. He's wearing a big bright blue Magen David baseball cap, a t-shirt covered with the slogan NO DIVIDING JERUSALEM, its collar covered in pins of the city seal, and he's holding a clipboard.

Now, my usual reaction to just about anyone who approaches me carrying a clipboard is to try and find an escape as quickly as possible. But I hope this time, naively, that he genuinely just wants to help (even though we don't need help, but never mind). "Where are you from?" he asks, and I just really don't want to say New York, because I know that's where he's from. "New York," I mumble. "Oh, from Long Island?" Ugh. "No, Westchester." "Oh, Westchester!" Blah blah something about New York blah blah.

Then, "OK, you picked a good map! Where are you trying to go?" Kara, ever the friendlier of our zug, answers "Do you know if this [points to blob of red in Talpiot, which we think was a mall we wanted to go out to to take care of some necessities] is the [name of mall]?" "Oh, you don't want to go there, you want to go to [name of some tourist trap shopping center near the King David]. You can't miss that. It's great! [More platitudes about said tourist trap.]"

OK, so our conversation with this gentleman is done so far as I'm concerned. But then it happens: POLITICS. I knew it would. It was inevitable...no one ever carries a clipboard for no reason.

"Now that I've helped you out, you can do me the small favor of signing this petition" he turns over clipboard to reveal a list of names and addresses of other people he's accosted, "telling Obama that we will never allow Jerusalem to be divided?" He really spits out the name, as though he could barely manage saying it.

My reply, accompanied by a grimace, was "I'm sorry, no, I'm not going to sign your petition," and then mumbling something about not wanting to put my name on anything political because of my position, etc. I mean, really, whether I agree with him or not (and, for many reasons, I do think that Jerusalem will not ultimately be divided), it is the height of chutzpah for him to make demands based on his presumptions about me. Truth be told, I didn't want to sign, no matter what it said.

His response was predictably indignant. "Do you understand at all what the importance of this is?"

This, dear reader, is perhaps the one question he could ask that would REALLY make me mad.

"Yes, I understand very well, thank you. And I'm not going to sign your petition."

And yet he keeps coming. "Why don't you explain to me, then, what this is about."

Sufficed to say, after this point, there was really nothing else going to happen in this discussion, save me ending it as soon as I possibly could through whatever means, short of signing his stupid paper.

I've been kicking myself for hours now with all of the things I SHOULD have said in response to this, and here's the best one I've come up with: "No, I don't think I will, because I don't owe you an explanation for anything I say or do. You intruded, unasked, on a private conversation, offered information that is less than useless to us, make 100 different presumptions about us based upon our dress and demeanor [I was wearing, I should mention, my usual black kippah srugah, Kara her hair covered as always, and a skirt], and then presume to demand my signature. You don't know anything about me, my ideals, my opinions, or anything else. To you, I'm just another American sap, so overwhelmed by the magic of being in Jerusalem, that any two bit schmuck like you can just walk up, take us by the hand, and tell us how it REALLY IS over here, and how we should just listen with rapt attention to all your TERRIFIC knowledge about what is quite possibly the most intractable, complex and painful political and spiritual issue that I, as a Jew, as a human being, and (at least for the next year) as a resident of this city, could possibly face. So no, I won't sign, nor will I explain myself to the likes of you. And now you can do me and my wife and my beautiful and increasingly impatient children a favor, and fuck off."

In the immortal words of comedian Steven Wright, that's what I should have said.

Dear readers, here is where I must apologize if what I've said offends, for I need all of the readers I can get. But here is how I see it: I think we all are entitled to our opinions on this and all of the wrenching issues faced by Israel today. They are none of them easy. We should discuss them. We should argue about them. We should be anguished about them.

But just don't assume that we all believe the same thing, nor that we should accept having the demand put upon us to defend our dearest opinions to any random person who feels inclined to butt in and shove a paper in our face. Because we don't and shouldn't.

At any rate, it will be a while before I open a map on Ben Yehuda street.

I promise the next post will be happier!

Last days in London

Well, we had a lovely stay in London (thanks Stef, Ashley and Paige). I admit I was not thrilled to be leaving, mostly because I had a fairly good sense that the going would be a bit harder in points south. After all, no cozy flat in Kew to welcome us, no pub downstairs to slake my thirst....

Before that, though, I should mention one of the highlights of the trip, and that was our visit to the V&A museum. Strangely, although having been to London a number of times and living in England for the better part of a year, I'd never been. And I really have missed out! The building itself is fascinating; the exterior done in a grand monumental Edwardian style, and then, quite surprisingly, one enters the courtyard through some of the galleries to find a fantastic renaissance revival garden, complete with some of the most beautifully overdone columns (image left, although you can't quite make out the intricate friezes on the columns).

Inside the V&A, as is my late interest, I had a look at the Asian art, and found some very lovely examples of buddhas and bodhisattvas from China, Japan and South Asia.

Oh...I forgot to mention the most outstanding part of the building, the "refreshment rooms," which are in fact part of the much expanded cafe, and which were designed by William Morris in brilliant early Arts & Crafts style. I"ll have to post a pic or two if I can figure out how to get this blog template to post more than one image.

(This just in: Toby, who is having some trouble sleeping in our new digs, just drew a picture -- Stef, you guys will want to pay attention to this -- the caption reads: "Mom and dad OK: walking in the hous....Me sad --- I miss London." On the left panel under the first caption is a pic of Kara and I, and on the right, Toby and Beruria laying in bed, with Toby up looking sad. I think he's a bit tired.)

Alright; more about our arrival tomorrow.

Arrived in London

We arrived in London last night after a fairly painless flight...five and a half hours, and Beruria only flipped out for the last 1/2 hour so. Quite an improvement over our last long flight!

Saying that, I do have to note one thing: even though we really did keep to ourselves quite successfully for the entire flight (and for a family of four with two children under 10, I think we behaved ourselves quite well...even me, which is saying something), this woman behind us gave me a major stink eye when I took the kids to the bathroom. What's up with that?

Right. Staying with Stef, Ashley and Paige in their lovely flat in Kew, where they have graciously put all of us up in their living room (or, as I found out, "front" room -- although I do seem to recall hearing my grandmother call her living room a front room, but nevermind).

On a sad note, I've been in London for nearly 24 hours and have not had a single pint. Not one. Hopefully this will be remedied soon...there is a pub literally within 15 feet of the front door of the flat...(Update: Ashely just brought me a half pint of Leffe. Ahhhhhh. Many thanks!)

Spent the day with our friends from Seattle long ago, Nic and Simon. It was delightful...especially Toby taking marching lessons from Jonah (the oldest) whose military parading prowess was remarkable (see video).

Saw the changing of the guard (or at least parts), and on to Trafalgar Square for sandwiches and pigeons.

After seeing a Simpsons episode last week, Toby was determined to visit Westminster Abbey (it was the one where Homer becomes a helicopter parent and builds a crappy balsa wood model of the Abbey)...anyway, so we shlepped down to Westminster. For some reason, I was compelled to pay the 15 pounds to go in (just Toby and I), and that was perhaps a mistake, as I think that the inside creeped Toby out (with good reason: I had forgotten just how many dead bodies there are in that place).

I have to hand it to them, though: as we were walking through, I in my kippah and Toby in his Mets cap, we were stopped at one point by a young gent -- do they call them deacons? -- who was wearing a robe...obviously working there. He was about to ask Toby to take off his cap, and then stopped -- and noticing my yarmulke, said "Oh...is that for his religion?" or something of the sort, and when I politely said yes, he apologized, and said no problem. I have to acknowledge that kindness on his part. I've certainly been in situations where such politeness was not extended. Way to go, England!

Alright...a clip and a pic and more to come.

Coming soon: A Year in Israel

Hello to my two readers:

As you may or may not know, Toby and I will be spending the next year in Israel (academic year, at least). Kara and Beruria will be joining us off and on during the year.

Stay tuned for our travel posts...Toby will be posting, too, as well as Kara (and Berur, if we can get her to).

Jess

BP

They're awful. They truly, truly suck. Their CEO is, to use the vernacular of his homeland, a total ponce.

But I think if I had a few bucks set aside, now would be the time to buy BP. (And I'm not the only one.)

Facts: the stock is at this point undervalued. The company is not going anywhere (despite bizarre rumblings that it was in danger). It is one of the few global players in a commodity that is becoming only more scarce (thanks in no small part to the amount of crude bleeding into the Gulf of Mexico).

In terms of ethics, I look forward to the day when shorting BP will be a winning proposition.